The Vulcan Ruse
by Heart in a Headlock
Summary: His own personal brand of insanity, it seemed, was contagious; and no Vulcan was willing to risk their minds for the half breed. Looks like the only thing between Spock and disaster is the blue-eyed boy from Iowa, standing on the cusp of revolution. K/S
1. HalfLife

"_We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars."_

_-Oscar Wilde_

_----_

James Tiberius Kirk was not fond of authority figures, as a general rule. Not how they sneered, not how they looked down on him, and certainly not how they always made a point of telling his mother _everything he'd done wrong._ The smudged linoleum floors made a satisfying 'screech' as he dragged the heel of his generic sneakers across them, waiting impatiently for the principal to finish talking with Winona and Frank Malcor.

Ugh. Frank. What his mom saw in the prideful, stubborn asshole of a redneck James would never understand- _especially_ the fact that she'd traded the proud Kirk name for fucking _Malcor_. It sounded like some flesh-eating disease; and it suited Frank quite nicely- but belonged nowhere _near_ his mother. Unfortunately she didn't seem to agree with his sentiments.

He didn't know why they weren't letting him in the conference room- he knew what they were talking about. Probably better than his accusers did, as a matter of fact. Still, it was something of and unspoken law that the party being ridiculed wasn't allowed in the 'trial', at least in today's school systems. They said it was in order 'not to embarrass the children through a retelling of their wrongdoings'. Jim knew it was really so he wouldn't have a chance to stick up for himself; at least in this case. They didn't think he belonged with the 'adults', talking about the grimmer things his teachers had been trying to force upon him for a while now- 'Discipline him,' they would insist, 'before it's too late'.

That day was already long gone. It had been too late ever since his father died, on the day of his birth. Too late since Frank had taken his first swing at him; and _far_ too late since James had taken his first swing back. Authority was corrupt, and a threat. Family was not family unless they were blood related or accepted by _everyone_- henceforth Frank did not count, not by his or Sam's standards. He had a paradigm of the galaxy all his own, grim and solid and surprisingly astute for one who had never been off planet.

He got far too little credit, and normally that wouldn't have bothered him- except that they didn't take his word at face value because of it. He said 'realist', they thought 'pessimist'. And so it was with his whole life, until he learned that the only way to get his point across was to exaggerate and let the rest of the world dumb it down to his real meaning.

He lived his life with a flare. To him, that meant making a splash however he could, and trying to be remembered for everything he did. This was misinterpreted as attention seeking.

No matter what he did, it seemed, he couldn't do it quite _right_.

Which is why he had decided to revamp every written answer question in Iowa Unified School District so that the only correct way to respond would be 'Jim Kirk's Mojo'. They should've been congratulating him for finding the glaring flaw in their system, and exploiting it for their own benefit. Instead, his legal guardians were now negotiating the terms under which he could avoid expulsion.

They would've laughed it off if it were a senior pulling the gag, he was pretty sure- but everybody hated freshmen, and so it had come to this (never let it be said Jim T. Kirk didn't avoid blame just fervently as any other juvenile delinquent in the making.)

He'd honestly been hoping they wouldn't notice the discrepancy until _after_ fall break— how was he supposed to know that some asshole teacher would put off a unit test until _the day before_ leave?

It didn't take a genius to know his plans for break were now officially ass-backwards.

A few seconds later, the door to the front office burst open to reveal a frazzled Winona, and-

-a livid looking stepfather, beer-gut quivering, eye twitching spasmodically.

James' fists clenched on reflex, locking eyes rebelliously. The tension in the air was palpable, like the split second after you drop mentos in coke before the impending explosion-

Then the situation was diffused, just like that, by his oblivious principal walking into the room. Sharp, narrowed blue eyes shot away from Frank to glance up at Mrs. Stern (appropriately named) as she gave him the classic 'resigned disappointment' glance that was a standard in every teacher's arsenal. "You aren't being expelled, James."

She said it as if it were a consolation, something to be relieved for- a mute point, when it took far more than a smudge on a semi-permanent record to invoke fear from someone quite so delicately damaged. Eyes softening, with a hint of something foreign, something he hadn't seen in a long while, she muttered the words that would become a pivotal moment in the fifteen year old's life: "But for the hurt you've caused, you need to help. Even the scales, if you will; I know someone who needs a friend, Jim. Almost as much as you do."

He hated it when she called him that. That name belonged to those he cared about, those who cared about him- "His name is Spock, and he needs to heal here. This assignment has no rubric, no outline- except your feelings, and his feelings, which I assure you are quite foreign concepts for the both of you. First and foremost, he needs a place to stay. And that place will be with you."

----

The biggest problem with humans is that they view love as a concept, like peace or democracy; and not a feeling, like happy or melancholy. The biggest problem with Vulcans is that they don't view love at all.

Lying in a sterile hospital bed, grey sky outside reflected in his staring eyes, was one of the most controversial young men ever born. Whether or not he could be conceived. Whether or not he would survive. Whether or not he was _sane._ And now, finally, what they were going to do with him.

Lashing out at his classmate was just the beginning of the chain. The crack that broke the dam, the dark cloud that started the flood- and everything had just gone down hill from there. No, nononononono…. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. He had never planned any of this, never anticipated any of this; but that was part of why he was here, wasn't it? Because he _couldn't _foresee these things, and couldn't fix them appropriately. Couldn't live right, couldn't continue breathing without being an unacceptable conglomeration of species that was, according to dark whispers in the hallways and shadowy glances form his peers, never supposed to exist in the first place.

Allowing himself this weakness, on top of so many others, (others that Vulcans were not supposed to allow) Spock curled in upon himself, face in his knees, eyes closed. He ignored the white walls around him and focused on the bright colors blooming behind his eyelids as they clenched too tightly. Skin pale as chalk, hair and scrubs black as Vulcan's moonless night, Spock in that cold little room was quite a sight to behold.

Except that he didn't want to be there. And the only way he knew of to get out was to ascertain the reason his physician insisted on his continued stay.

Unbeknownst to the general populace of Vulcan, senses could hinge on emotions: when one _wanted_ beyond reason to hear something just out of range, or see that which was just out of sight, through sheer power of determination it could sometimes be achieved. This phenomenon was occurring that instant, as a matter of fact: Spock, listening to the doctors give his parents the run-down of their woefully sick son. It wasn't anything he hadn't heard before.

_Nothing_ about him was quite right at the moment. Everything just seemed so… so _big._ Too big, too overwhelming and too far reaching for any young mind, Vulcan or otherwise, to grasp.

Each thought flitted past like graffiti in a subway tube. There, visible, in bright colors and block lettering, but gone far too fast to internalize. Only fleeting glimpses were visible, infuriatingly elusive as one train of thought melded into the other without time to categorize. They had the potential to be brilliant, he knew… except that his mind was drifting apart. And for a race as dependant on the power of mind over body as Vulcans, and unfocused mind was as good as a death warrant.

It wouldn't be such a problem if Vulcans weren't touch telepaths- they could study and council and fix it in the blink of an eye, hypothetically; except that any brave green-blooded soul who ventured far enough into his mind to determine the cause of such a rift would invariably be drawn into his madness. His own personal brand of insanity, it seemed, was contagious. And no Vulcan was willing to jeopardize themselves for the half breed. His scientific use was over the instant he was born: Human-Vulcan gene splicing is possible; on to the next topic.

As soon as Spock went from 'concept' to 'sentient being', he became a liability to the Vulcan ruse of all-encompassing logic.

Spock had been raised on Vulcan, following their ideals and practicing their law: logically, such and admission shouldn't have affected him in the slightest. But it did. It hurt, in ways beyond physical, in ways he wasn't supposed to be able to recognize. Things he had never even taken into account were like a knife to the heart now— the whole world disproportionately painful.

His curse was human emotions and Vulcan intolerance to them. And it was threatening to destroy him.

His mother's sobs from the opposite chamber snapped him out of his reverie, sharp ears pricking attentively as he caught the tail end of his diagnosis. "He is not safe here. If any one of us attempts to directly diffuse the problem we would be dragged unwillingly into the same problem at this late stage. Emotions of such a caliber are… detrimental to our kind, Mrs. Grayson. The only contact your son might hope to have at this point is with yourself and other humans. I apologize. There is nothing more we can do for him here; there is, however, a rather unique cultural studies program that may just allow him safe passage—"

Spock lost track of the conversation. It appeared to be important. He should've been listening. He just… couldn't bring himself to care at the moment. His impatience outweighed his curiosity, any objections frustration may have had were drowned out by sadness.

It was simply himself, in his most natural state of being. And it was too much for everyone.

---Littlebird----

The door to the ancient seeming barn-house was nearly torn off it's hinges by a livid Frank, grasping his struggling charge by the collar like a misbehaving dog.

Seconds later, Jim having landed a particularly spectacular kick to the older man's shins, he was flung across the room like a rag doll, twisting in mid-air in an attempt to avoid any more injury than was inevitable at this point. His ribcage 'thwunk'd painfully against the corner of the coffee table ('Hey,' he figured, "better that than my head.") on landing, and he lay dormant with a grim expression of agonized loathing for a split second on the ground before rising to his feet shakily, one hand on the back of the couch for support. Some knick-knack or other had shattered on contact with Jim's elbow, and the jagged pieces of what he assumed to be plastic dug painfully into his free hand.

The screen door shut loudly behind the two of them, Winona lingering by the old pickup truck with a pained expression on her face at the scene.

"Making a little shit out of yourself on a regular basis just isn't enough for you, is it Jimmy? You always have to take the extreme route, don't'cha- have to turn our home into a boarding facility for factory reject aliens to get your kicks now, is that it?!"

'Home' was not the connotation he would've used for this place- not in a long time. Frank's statement was punctuated by a sharp little blow to Jim's side, nearly causing him to loose his precarious balance.

The large, ugly man had yelled himself red in the face, spit flying every which way in a disgusting display of humanity at it's lowest.

Jim grinned up unapologetically, eyes twinkling with a special kind of mischief that requires a passion for stepping on every last nerve. He allowed himself one painful, hacking cough before replying in a voice that embodied the spirit of 'Eat shit and die.'

"You know me, Frank. Had to go for the gold."

Another kick directed at the center of his stomach caused Jim to curl in upon himself in and instinctive attempt to protect his vital organs. Winona, seemingly able to turn a blind eye no longer, finally intervened with tears in her blue eyes. "Enough! Jim didn't mean any of this, you… you just stop it, right now!" They were desperate, hysterical words, exhaled in a tone of voice that implied as much.

Brushing his wife off, Frank's eyes met James's one more time. Electric cobalt clashing against smoggy brown. "He had better hope he didn't mean it."

Jim's eyes narrowed. No, he decided, it was _Frank_ who had better hope he didn't mean it- because whoever the hell they sent his way, he was recruiting his new bunkmate for full out war—

—'cause if there's one thing Jim could do _**right**_, it was win.

_-------_

**A/N:** _Very short _preliminary chapter; almost a prologue, but not quite.

Should be updated about once a week. Reviews have a visible effect on my work ethic, so if you want more, longer chapters at frequent intervals, holler and let me know! Everything and anything is appreciated.

-_Headlock_


	2. Canvas

Jim gnawed on his bottom lip impatiently as he paced, large chunks of ice in a Ziplock bag held tightly to a swollen red goose egg on his forehead. He shouldn't have provoked the asshole like that; but the reaction was too typical (too _priceless_) not to try and evoke.

And by try he meant succeed.

There was a mulish, contemplative look on his face when Winona walked back in to the room.

Frank was a slimy, useless asshole- but he didn't actually hit Jim too often. Mostly because he was a coward, (Jim's opinion, of course) but beyond that, Frank wasn't stupid. Quite. Certainly bordering on it, but not totally over the edge of redneck. In this day and age, people would _notice_ bruises like those that would result from a beating- a fact that saved James quite a bit of pain, he imagined.

Well, that and his mom. She was small, delicate looking and terrified of being left alone again; but a force to be reckoned with when provoked. No, Frank's brand of abuse was typically verbal: petty insults, derogatory comments about his intelligence and the likes. If Jim's tongue hadn't been sharp as a tack before Frank arrived, it sure as hell was now. The only way to combat his stepfather's kind of fire was with verbal fire of his own; unless he wanted to brawl (Which would be quite alright with him, but his mom wasn't too keen on settling arguments that way. Pity.)

Ah, mom. Frank at least had chivalry enough not to directly insult him in front of her. It was the only redeeming factor about the brute: he had a deep seated respect for his mother. To say nothing of his attitude towards her family.

A 'tough little woman', Sam called her before he had moved out and seemingly dropped off the face of the planet, and the sentiment fit remarkably well most of the time. But… she was emotionally attached to her second husband (Much to Jim's dismay), and made rare exceptions for him that she would make for no other.

This happened to be one of them, James supposed, with a resigned sigh. He hated it; but couldn't bring himself to hate her. Her choices, yes, her partners _always_, but never Winona herself. She had raised him all by her lonesome, and for all of his occasionally misplaced morals he could never show enough gratitude for what she gave up for his sake.

She looked upon him now with pained regret and affection; always affection. It was the only thing that got him through some days. Especially now, in the face of Freshman year and new roommates and _Frank._ With emphasis on the latter component.

She walked up to him and gently took his occupied hand, pulling it and the ice pack he grasped gently away from his hurt noggin. They didn't talk about it. She had given Frank the verbal thrashing of the century the instant she realized just how over the line he'd gone, and had been giving him the cold shoulder since morning.

She couldn't leave him and stay sane; so Jim wouldn't ask it of her. He'd just take what he could get in the way of maternal protection.

Snatching the ice pack form him, she placed it on his bedside dresser and rubbed his frigid hand in between her two warm ones, staring expectantly into his blue eyes.

"The first school assembly of the year was today." Jim commented absent-mindedly, still half stuck in his head, "Freshman got 'boo'ed the instant we walked in. It sucked." She 'humm'ed softly in acknowledgement.

"They always do, dear. It's the nature of such things. Not worth troubling yourself over."

The nature of such things. Jim could bitterly apply that sentiment to quite a few things going on in his life at the moment, but curbed his tongue in a desire to avoid further conflict, and the deep-rooted desire to please that maternally raised children tend to have. Contrary to popular belief, Jim _could_ keep his big fat mouth shut when the situation called for it (but only when it pertained to the people he loved.)

Slipping his hand gently out of her grasp after a few minutes of comfortable silence, he collapsed down onto his bed, shoulders hunching carelessly. Winona ran her hand gently over the top of his head once and looked at him with mournful eyes a final time, before gathering the residual medical supplies and padding softly out of his room.

This self imposed war against Frank was going to be difficult on multiple levels. Most of his usual tactics were null and void in this situation: he couldn't _really _hurt the Neanderthal, and couldn't scare him away for good. Mom couldn't take that. The process of spooking the man, of instilling at _least_ a grudging respect or truce, was going to be meticulous at best. Can't pull up short, can't go too far.

Can't make mom cry in the process, either. Obsequious dick of a husband or not, he couldn't stand being the cause for one of her teary eyes.

There was no course of action he could take at the present moment. Not without disastrous results, and disproportionate backfire. The entire operation, it seemed, depended upon his wild jack: the new kid. His revolution hinged upon the opportunities that 'Spock' might bring with him. Jim wasn't too keen on the forced friendship idea, but if the sophomore had something to bring to the table, things just might work out.

…he hoped. Oh god how James Tiberius Kirk hoped.

-BlackCanvasRevolveWithin-

Leaving was a messy, ugly ritual for humans, it seemed. Fat, sparkling tears ran fast down his mother's face as she hugged him goodbye tightly- murmuring comforting little nothings about 'her baby boy' and 'feeling better soon'. There was no educational or physical merit to it; but it soothed his soul. Not that he'd ever articulate the sentiment- but it was there, and so logically there was no point in denying it- just analyzing it and, hopefully, rectifying it.

He hadn't felt this way (felt at all, actually) since he was a small child, and quite frankly it frightened him—

-no, not frightened. It just… just…

Oh Surak, how fast his control had gone. 'That was why', he reminded himself, 'this is necessary. That is why I'm going to Earth, to find a different focus of meditation and interact with beings that won't be injured by my… disability.'

Disability. So far as Spock could hate, he _hated_ that word.

Space was a beautiful black canvas above him, stars brilliant pinpricks of light in the unpolluted, moonless Vulcan sky. He would have looked in place at a funeral: the high necked black Vulcan school robes and immaculate dress shoes setting him instantly apart from the other shuttle goers, mostly human vacationers and Starfleet officers headed back to the line of duty.

His mother had hurriedly shoved a photograph in his hands, after long bout fifteen minutes of crying and sobbing and kisses showered around his face that should've been time consuming and illogical, but made him feel oddly appreciated. It was a picture of herself and his father, holding an infant him in her arms. She was laughing; and it was obviously genuine. Some of her good humor appeared to have rubbed off on Sarek; who was smiling down at his wife with the Vulcan equivalent of an adoring gaze. Spock's chubby, baby arms were outstretched towards his mother's face, eyes alight with the kind of innocent contentment all young children seem to possess. Only about three by six inches, it wasn't terribly prominent or fancy (in it's simple wooden frame), but something about it set his churning insides at ease.

He was going at this alone. His father was too busy going about his ambassadorial duties, his mother helping; plus, Spock was old enough to make logical, rational decisions by himself, even when emotions ran rampant in his head. In order to help him gain initial focus, his physician had given him a very low dose of a calm-inducing sedative. From that point, he was able to meditate himself into a semi-right state of mind. Right enough to get as far away from the rest of his species, at least- right enough not to hurt anyone else with his unstable state of mind.

With eyes dead-set ahead and poised like royalty, no-one in the airport could've ever guessed that it was, effectively, an exiled Vulcan in their midst.

They probably would, however, say how unnerving his presence was; how unnerving Vulcans in general were, with their lack of joy and sympathy. As his father had once explained, being a wholly peaceful race didn't stand for as much as it should in this galaxy- other, emotional races wouldn't trust them as far as they could throw them unless they had some emotional inkling to their thoughts. In a galaxy-wide society where uniqueness was supposedly cherished, and under the protection of the United Federation of Planets, Vulcans had almost as much animosity directed at them as the Klingons did. The phrase 'know-it-all' seemed to be the first thing to pop into mind whenever Spock's people were mentioned; not the fact that they were notoriously peaceful, not the phenomenal contributions they had made to the fields of math and science, just a blind resentment for the green-blooded peoples who didn't act like they did, think like they did.

This was reflected in the faces of passers by as Spock ventured further into the starship port, the number of tourists and stationed personnel now outweighing the number of Vulcans present.

It was probably a good thing. Less telepaths around meant less chances to accidentally project unruly emotions upon an innocent bystander; but the feeling of abandonment, of complete aloneness and ostracization outweighed his relief at being out of range of familiar races.

Two of young Andorians were off to his left in one of the more… exotic food courts, making Vulcan jokes so softly they must've thought he couldn't hear them. He could, of course.

A pang of sympathy suddenly seized him: humans deserved far more credit than they got if this was the kind of emotional whirlpool they had to wade through on a daily basis. He had been separated from his parents for less than half and hour, and already Spock was treading metaphorical water.

Shoulders hunched in an attempt to make himself as inconspicuous as possible, the young hybrid dipped and weaved in and out of oncoming traffic, proud posture gone as he went about trying to be noticed by as few people as possible. It was somewhat futile, considering his garb, but for the most part people got the 'hiding' vibe and left him to his own devices.

It took longer than it should've for him to get to his shuttlecraft. He was so used to following his imposing father through crowds such as this, striding calmly foreword as the masses parted for Sarek.

The lack of respect was jarring. His venomous, sangfroid glares he fixed anyone caught staring with helped protect his personal bubble minimally; but so many people were either stuck in their own little worlds or chatting on communicators that jostling occurred quite frequently.

It was severely uncomfortable, mostly because 'casual' touch had an _entirely_ different connotation for Vulcans. Brushing others, even through clothing, was… very personal.

He'd even been **kissed** a couple of times—the soft, accidental brushing of hands causing Spock to recoil violently.

At least it was good practice, he mused. Humans were notoriously tactile creatures.

After roughly fifteen minutes of traversing the busy docking bay (and blessing every ancient and falsified god the old Vulcan ways ever referenced), he finally found his transport: the 'Mayflower'. It was a relatively old ship, without any voice recognition systems whatsoever and one, faulty beaming pad, but it served its purpose of carrying live cargo from planet to planet well enough for continued use. Well aware he was over an hour early, he walked somewhat briskly up the rough black boarding ramp into the old thing, handing the portly human clerk at it's doorframe his first class ticket.

There were only about ten other people on the craft at this point, mostly the elderly and families with young children. He was glad for the social reprieve. His sedative had been slowly but surely wearing off, and while he should be able to function sufficiently without it now that injuring others through accidental telepathic connection wasn't a problem, his condition would not be helped by the surrounding aggressive crowds.

While his human heritage embraced the full spectrum of emotions inside of him, the Vulcan half acknowledged only his joy and his fury; two of the most dangerous emotions to have magnified to a human degree. It referenced long gone days on Vulcan when fighting tooth and nail was the only honorable way to survive, and the weak died out _regardless_ of any mental advancement they had the potential to contribute.

That was the mindset in which he had assaulted his goading peer. If he was all words and no action he was weak, and therefore had no place breathing in Spock's presence. If Spock was the weak one the bully could do whatever he wanted, under consideration of the fact that he was more powerful.

The primal, illogical train of thought, those deeply ingrained urges had made him feel… oddly powerful, as shamed as he was to admit it. Since playing for power was all emotions chalked up to in the Vulcan race, there had been a general consensus that if he was going to feel these things he may as well do it the human way; where there was a far greater margin for peaceful feelings and so a far broader window of opportunity to reassert his mental diligence.

Pulling back the thin curtain that separated economy seating from First and

Business class, he was immensely, illogically grateful that he appeared to be the first one to arrive in this section (save for a graying old human woman, sleeping peacefully in one of the back rows.)

Quickly stalking to the front section and picking one of the only reclining chairs not sidled up against another, he sat down with inhuman grace and closed his eyes tightly, blocking out the view of beautiful black space stretched out in front of him.

It was going to be a long flight.

-Can'-

Jim sat on the concrete divide between two of the large docking bay's, sneaker-clad feet swinging in long arks away from the wall before coming back to allow the rubber heel to bounce away once again. Bored; oh, so bored….

In the end, his mom was the only one who was outwardly exited about their coming guest; seeing as Frank was a stick in the mud at the best of times and Jim was holding out judgment until he met the dude; if he was being transferred _planets_ to stay with them, he had to have a problem bigger than social awkwardness.

Well, that and the fact that Vulcans had a reputation for being frigid assholes. Considering the nasty rumors that spread like wildfire about humans, he didn't want to put too much stock in those words— but it'd be nice to be on guard, just in case a bitch-fight of epic intellectual proportions broke out. Always a plus to be prepared.

The car ride had been long, grueling and uneventful; Frank had, thankfully, opted to stay at home while they set out the welcome wagon for the new occupant of their household, so it was just him and his mom, driving for hours towards the nearest big city, (and by extension the nearest intergalactic airport) Des Moines.

His mother was exceptionally fond of car rides, (otherwise they just would've beamed the large distance like _normal_ people) and it was generally something James was grateful for (As it was a habit she had picked up from his real father); except now it was merely embarrassing and potentially degrading. He knew, from the studies forced upon him in his culture class that Vulcans were, as a general rule, much more advanced than humans in terms of technology; how plebian would their new guest think they were, spending superfluous hours in a car traveling through mile after mile of cornfield?

"Don't worry dear- I'm sure he'll find it simply fascinating. You may take it for granted, but I'm sure he's never seen anything like it before: remember, Vulcan is a desert planet. Oh, I can't wait until we get the chance to show him _snow…_"

It was a flawed concept, since he'd undoubtedly see the snow on his own as soon as winter rolled around, but her exuberance worried him a bit. Even if he wasn't particularly fond of the guy, it wouldn't do to have his mom pointing out every little detail of the planet like an over-exited tour guide- but it's what made her happy, he supposed, so he'd just have to find other ways of convincing this 'Spock' that not all humans were quite so… er… _enthusiastic._

He loved Winona dearly, but knew her brand of unconditional optimism and obnoxious kindness wasn't for everybody. There was **one** condition he would have to address before it became an issue, though:

"Mom? Just… in case we actually become more than roommates- I mean, _friends_… could you- well… not call me dear? In front of him, that is." The request was worded delicately, hesitant and gentle, in the hopes that her feelings wouldn't be injured by the prospect that, through all his admiration and love, he found her somewhat embarrassing.

Only a little, though. Usually. On good days.

For all his self-confidence and wit, James was not a popular man. Yes, part of this could be attributed to the fact that he was a freshman, and another to the fact that he was a totally unrepentant smartass about _everything;_ but the rest was just that he was simply (in the eyes of his peers, at least) too smart to be 'cool'. Honors class did not a quarterback make.

Point and case, friends in his neighborhood were few and far between.

It'd be nice to have one that stuck around, just this once. Even better that he was an upperclassmen: if Jim played his cards right, he might just not have to find out if shoving freshman's heads in the toilet was _really_ a tradition.

Which is why the illusion of some semblance of collectedness was crucial, even it was only initial. He didn't consider himself to be an expert on the Vulcan connotation for 'awesome', but common sense implied that being called 'dear', 'sweetie' and 'hon' every other word by your mother as a ninth grader was _not _it.

If Vulcans even _had_ a word that translated to awesome. Huh. He'd have to ask.

"If you do become friends, _dear_, he won't mind what I call you. And I do hope you'll get along swimmingly; this entire experience is going to be simply wonderful! I can see it now!"

The conversation had progressed over a myriad of different topics from there: life, the Federation (a painful topic for Winona, he knew), and plans for the rest of break. After what seemed like an eternity of sleeping and chatting they finally arrived at the Des Moines Federation Dock and Cargo Bay—an hour and a half early. They had grabbed some fast food at one of the vastly overpriced places lining the walls, looked over the many mini-exhibits lining the hallways—

And finally, all other outlets for their restlessness spent, sat down to wait for the new arrival. Every bounce of his heel merited a fairly loud 'thwick', and by this time the noise had gained negative attention from a cranky looking old man hunched over a suitcase in the next dock over.

Jim smirked and made a conscious effort to kick the wall harder. Finally, orange warning lights flashed to alert the waiting citizens of the oncoming shuttle, and Jim jumped down from the wall, standing next to a positively _glowing_ Winona and waited with baited breath for the person who would end up changing their lives forever.

**A/N: **I couldn't find a fic where Jim isn't 'Mr. Cool Guy' as a kid- which is part of why I decided to tackle this multi-chapter brainchild of mine. Don't worry: he ends up cool (he's _James Tiberius Kirk_, bitches) but, at least in my experience, anyone who raises their hand too much in class is classified as a know it all and effectively shunned, especially in small schools (and considering that, at least in 2009-verse, he seems to live right around buttfuck nowhere, Iowa, his high school can't have too many kids; in the car chase scene there wasn't a building in sight for miles: not what I'd call a city, or even a town.)

This would also attribute to why he initially became a repeat offender when he's 23 (beginning of the movie, that is): to combat his reputation as the cocky honors-class asshole. Well, that and the fact that he enjoys sex and alcohol.

Just saying it could've been a contributing factor.

Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed!

**And, to Osa**: I hope some of the explanation in this chapter eased your ever-logical and loophole seeking mind. Thanks so much for being my first reviewer (with the longest review, might I add!)

Love to everyone, and Review! Your feedback is why this chapter is out today, and not Wednesday like I said it'd probably be!


	3. Panic Switch

The shuttlecraft was almost obscenely loud, drowning out even the steady murmur of all the voices in the hangar as it descended. Chipped white paint on it's dark grey hull declared it the 'Mayflower', and Jim knew now for certain that this was the ship they'd been waiting for.

His mother grasped his wrist so tightly the circulation was cut off, but he couldn't be bothered by it: the airlock had just been unsealed, and the first, prompt passengers were stumbling out of their seats with the appearance of standing on stilts; waiting until they were out of the traffic zone and stretching their legs vigorously, most of them whipping out cell phones to alert whoever their contact was of their safe arrival on-planet.

Jim suddenly wished he knew more about Vulcans- or at least their physical appearance. They were supposed to be a tall, elongated race, generally elegant and graceful in design with pointed ears and tapering eyebrows. While a few beings had walked off fitting this general bill, they were either too old, or obviously not looking to meet up with anyone here at the docks.

After roughly five minutes of watching passengers slowly trickle out of the craft, most of Jim's exited buzz had worn off. He was considering going and re-filling his soda, and letting his mom play catcher for their guest. Right up until he caught sight of his new bunkmate.

It was a solemn looking teenager that stepped out next. With eyes so dark they blended almost seamlessly into his black iris', he was like nothing James had ever seen before.

The boy practically glided out of the exit, lacking all of the awkward, dead-legged appearance of his companions, striding like royalty down the rubber platform. His hands and feet were exceptionally long: legs thin and spidery, hips narrow yet fitting. He had the highest cheekbones Jim had ever seen, and it struck him in that instant that he had never met anyone who so obviously had the face and bearing of a man, yet looked so damn… effeminate. That was the only word for it, really- he looked like an elf, straight out of a fantasy novel, despite the fact that broad shoulders and a strong chin labeled him as male. From a distance, the boy simply looked far too ethereal to be a living, breathing being.

His hair, too, was almost androgynous: styled in a bowl cut that he couldn't see working for anyone else, (but seemed to fit this kid) constructed of glossy black hair.

Still, 'Spock' here was at _least_ six-foot two, and therefore not a force to be reckoned with, no matter how hilariously_ pretty_ he may be. James suppressed a vindictive snicker; he simply couldn't help it. Yes, _pretty_ was the perfect adjective for his Vulcan roommate.

Regardless, he shouldn't say that to Spock's face. Jim forcefully reminded himself that his goal here was to get the dude on his side, not offend his undoubtedly delicate alien sensibilities.

…and then the dainty ears flicked twice on Spock's head, and Jim couldn't suppress a snort of good humor.

Winona squealed excitedly when she caught sight of their Vulcan. "Oh, Look, Jim! There he is now!" Still holding fast to his wrist, she dragged him eagerly foreword, closer to the inquisitive looking being. He followed with fast, short steps, just as anxious now as she seemed to be (although he'd never admit it.)

It was interesting how a primarily humanoid figure could be so blatantly foreign. The ears were longer than Jim had expected, and the fact that the light shone _green_ through the thin veins inside them nearly had him in stitches of mirth.

Something about hemoglobin and copper based blood flitted through the back of Jim's mind at the sight, but he ignored it in favor of more observation. Seeing the guy _here-_ however distant and awkward and utterly strange the alien was (not something he had honestly been anticipating, since Vulcans were supposedly one of the closest species, genetically, to homo-sapiens) invoked an excitement inside of him that he hadn't realized he'd been holding in.

Once he'd finished tripping over his own feet due to the speed at which Winona was dragging him foreword to meet their guest, Kirk pulled gently out of her grasp and began racing her to Spock. It was a blast from the past, like they used to do when he was only a tyke: racing to the truck, the barn or the front door; except this time they were racing towards a pivotal point in both of their futures, and Spock did _not_look happy about it.

The surprise sprawled across his face was almost comical, but Jim wasn't worried. For all of their childish games and appearances, it wasn't like they'd actually tackle the dude or anything.

Finally reaching the yellow 'caution' threshold on the edge of the loading ramp, they both screeched to a halt: Winona panting from exhaustion and Jim buzzing in jubilation.

Their Vulcan houseguest had slowed his decent markedly, staring down at the Kirk and Malcor with well-disguised trepidation. His dark eyes went from Jim to Winona and right back to Jim, left eyebrow raising steadily on higher on his forehead in what appeared to be a subdued version of the classic '-the fuck?!?' look. At least, that was what it translated into for Jim.

The young human smirked lazily back at Spock, raising two fingers to his forehead in a careless mock-military salute.

Winona, by this time, had raised her arms and began waving vigorously at Spock (like he'd have any trouble finding _them_ in this meager crowd.)

Composed as ever, yet with an endearing air of bashfulness, the black-clad extra-terrestrial waved back in a much more inconspicuous manner. The two boys spent the rest of Spock's short walk sizing each other up, before (_finally_) he stepped off the rubber contraption.

With a delighted little cry Winona began striding briskly towards the newcomer; and with a sense of belated horror Jim realized she meant to hug him.

Oh. _Shit._

James, needless to say, didn't pay much attention in his Intergalactic Cultures class. He treated it as his study hall and relaxation time; getting good grades, yes, but only through bland memorization and regurgitation of facts, forgetting the whole lesson plan within a week of learning it.

There were, however, rare instances when something he absorbed in class stuck with him. And the fact that Vulcans did not enjoy being touched was one of them.

–Well, actually, the fact that stuck had to do with Vulcans hearts being placed directly to the left of their stomachs, but in order to hear about this cool tidbit he'd had to tune in to the rest of the conversation as well. Regardless, he knew a fair bit about Vulcans, and this was supposedly rule number one pertaining to the sangfroid race.

The look Spock adopted when he came to the same realization as Jim was one he'd never forget.

All of his plans for an alliance with the other boy suddenly began crashing down around Jim's ears. As soon as his body caught up with his train of thought, he was sprinting to intercept what now seemed to be the inevitable. Luckily (or woefully, depending on who you asked) Jim was a fair sight faster than his mother.

Spock's black iris' widened markedly, seeing the two of them advancing. His spine straightened, fingers twitching, looking for the entire world a man who was fighting the urge to bolt.

James' line of vision switched so slow-motion. The rubber heels of his Chuck Taylor Converse gave him more friction than his mom's wedges did, and he advanced in great leaps and bounds toward the interception point.

He made it between Spock and his mother just in time.

Sliding into home right next to the object of Winona's motherly affections, he adopted a sturdy pose, wrapping his arm conspiratorially around Spock's broad shoulders.

"Mom-" he exclaimed, exasperated relieved and slightly amused by the whole absurd turn of events, "Vulcans don't really like to be-" He was going to say 'touched', but that'd make him a hypocrite at this point, "-hugged." He finished lamely, feeling suddenly conspicuous.

Spock looked torn between relief and horror. The height difference made their position look that much more awkward: now, right up close, he realized the Vulcan had to have a good five inches on him.

And if Jim hadn't been quite so focused on his mother, he would've noticed how, in his short-sleeved shirt, his bare arm brushed Spock's neck _ever so slightly_ where the high collar opened- and saw the shiver that ran the length of the sophomore's body, every hair on his scalp seeming to stand on end.

---JustSayGoodnightAndGo---

If there ever was a time Spock could be properly categorized as 'Scared Shitless', this would be it.

First the running- the expressions of glee and wonder on their faces so foreign that they were hard to place- and then, heaven forbid, the one who looked to be his peer went and touched him.

Which was a vast improvement from the hug his maternal figure had appeared ready to give him, but unspeakably unwelcome none-the-less. Or… it would have been.

Except that, when their skin had briefly come in contact… something in the back of his waking mind flared up like a firecracker. Bright spots of light superimposed themselves on the back of his eyelids, like bright, colorful bubbles popping-

And then, all of a sudden, he wasn't _quite_ alone in his head.

Completely human dread coiled, cold, wet and slimy feeling, in the bottom of his stomach. His brain had reached out to the blonde human in his moment of weakness, found were his deepest emotions lie dormant: **and proceeded to grasp onto them like an improvised mental crutch.**

Between Vulcans suffering from severe depression and mothers of other telepathic races who had lost children, this _had _been known to occur before.

But certainly not like this. Not between two people who'd never met before, not between two separate species; just definitely _not_ like **this**!

There were rituals to bind the minds, melds required, professional help called in- he wasn't just supposed to latch on like a parasite! Frantically, Spock tugged on the mental tie only to be tugged right back into place, subconsciously, by the human.

Oh Surak, what his father would do when he found out his only son had clamped down on an oblivious being for mental support; that every one of his most dangerous emotions was now being filtered by someone he didn't even _know…_

…but… wow. Already he felt better. (Spock was also pretty sure bonds like this weren't supposed to kick in so fully or so quickly, but he wasn't complaining at this point.)

He heard the boy in question mention something bout 'Vulcans not liking to be hugged', and nodded absently in agreement, distraught expression still plastered across his face.

Spock tugged experimentally at the bond once again, less worried about recoil at this point. Sure enough, the other end of the connection tugged back. And the blonde boy was, for all appearances, utterly oblivious to the reaction his mind stimulated.

Yeah. He was pretty sure he was damned at this point. Leaning on someone else's emotions was never safe, especially when the party doing the depending had superior telepathic prowess. Still, for all the problems it posed, he couldn't help but find the unfortunate phenomenon…

"Fascinating."

"I beg your pardon?" The graying mother had made this query, kindly eyes fixed on Spock's now bloodshot ones.

A split second later he was under mental barrage. Curiosity, worry and hundreds of other fragmented emotions that outlined the sentiment of 'Huh?' now flooded through the link at him. Spock's entire body twitched in response, before strangling the bond enough to stop the unedited flow of feeling and separate the thoughts that were his from those that were ('Jim's', his mind supplied him, gently tapping into the other boy's conciseness.) Yes, Jim's. James Tiberius Kirk's.

It was at that moment, with startling clarity, that Spock realized he was in deep proverbial shit.

----CanYouFallAsleepWithAPanicSwitch?----

It was like a panic switch had been flipped in the back of Jim's mind. Little electric pulses of grey-scale emotions that didn't feel quite like _his_ flickered, near undetectable, at the base of his skull. They were all worry and despair and shock, but faint enough to be brushed off. And that was exactly what Jim did with them. He had enough shit to deal with right now, thank-you-kindly.

Except they were kind of itchy, and that part he couldn't ignore quite so well. The embarrassment now swallowing him whole at his mothers actions still hadn't subsided fully; and his discomfort was only magnified by the 'Oh, shit' embodying feelings that had taken up residence in his head. He figured they probably had something to do with the guilt that the horrified look on Spock's face gave him.

He let his arm slip gently from the sullen boy's shoulders. Introductions were probably superfluous at this point: both of them having been thoroughly briefed on how this was going down beforehand, but Jim figured it couldn't hurt to stand on ceremony.

"Pleased to meet you. I'm James Kirk, but you can call me Jim-" He had the urge to punch himself, his voice sounding far more eager and bubbly than he had intended, "-and this is my mom, Winona Malcor." The entire process seemed inordinately formal. Luckily, it appeared to have the intended effect. The tension that had Spock's body strung taut seemed to subside a bit, wading back into a genre of conversation that was more in his comfort zone.

The sixteen year old looked more than a little out of it, to be honest.

"S'chn T'gai Spock. The pleasure is mine." His baritone took Jim by surprise. Spock had a low, thrumming voice, seeming too grown up for the teenage mouth it came out of. The first two words of his name (James wasn't even going to _try_ and pronounce them) were almost two-toned; seeming to reverberate in Spock's chest before echoing out though his slightly green lips.

Jim couldn't decide whether it was cool or creepy. The panic-switch connection seemed to send the name straight into the back of his skull, lodging it away in his memory far deeper than anticipated. Shaking off the odd, Déjà vu reminiscent feeling, there was a split second when their eyes met before Mrs. Malcor interrupted the moment.

"You can just call me Winona, honey. Everyone does." Oh good god. She'd just gone and called Spock 'honey'. Hell, it was even worst than 'dear'! Exasperation filled him quickly and completely, making it hard to resist the urge to apologize for his mother and curl up in a corner somewhere, hoping his new acquaintance hadn't lost all faith in his potential coolness.

At least his mom's intentions were good, he attempted to console himself. When it came to her baby boy, they always were.

----HypocritesYou'reAllHereForTheVerySameReason----

The short walk to the truck was silent but not uncomfortable. Yes, there were things that needed to be said, but none so pressing that they'd deprive their guest the chance to gape at the new world around him.

Spock remembered how, when he was little, his mother had pleaded with his father to bring them both along on his ambassadorial trips here. She had a strong sense of loyalty and pride about her homeland, and desperately wanted her only child to share that passion.

Amanda Grayson had been a schoolteacher before she became Sarek's bride, he knew- and the way he progressed in academic leaps and bounds filled her with a decidedly un-Vulcan sense of accomplishment as a parent, and love of her son.

Amanda's method of teaching him was also off the 'traditional' mark for what Spock considered his planet. To help him memorize his times tables, she would sing him light hearted melodies with the necessary knowledge in the lyrics. As opposed to having him review the textbook studiously, she would make him flashcards with silly, sketchy little drawings in an attempt to help his human side absorb knowledge.

And under this brand of dual-tutelage, Spock flourished. Eventually he put a stop to her educational coddling, in an attempt to integrate himself more completely into the Vulcan culture; but there were still days when he found himself reviewing mental flashcards, or associating the progression of the periodic table with twentieth century earth tunes (more specifically the song 'Eight Days a Week', by a wildly popular European band that named themselves after a species of terran insect he couldn't quite recall.)

In much the same manner she used to stretch him tall tales of her homeland, transfiguring all aspects into wildly exaggerated proportions a younger Spock delighted in.

One such hyperbole, as he remembered it, was that of earth's agriculture. She would speak of how the farmland seemed to stretch on forever, perfectly imperfect in it's almost symmetry. Each plant different, yet spaced at exact intervals.

Absently, Spock supposed his interest must've had to do with the fact that vegetation was so sparse on Vulcan that the concept of square miles of greenery was scientifically fascinating.

Now, driving down a cracked black highway in the heart of Iowa that separated two patches of green corn-stalks as far as the eye could see, Spock could admit why he really must've found the concept so intriguing: it was due to the fact that it had seemed beautiful. Still, it had _nothing _on the reality. The maze of plants was visually stimulating to him- eyes loosing track of the single row of corn he had been following, getting lost in the whole. It was much like staring at one blade of a ceiling fan, trying to track it as the contraption twirled: nearly impossible.

It stirred something inside of Spock, his repressed human side crying out in recognition of home.

His surprise when realizing that they weren't taking a warp pad back to his host's house was replaced by a sense of gratitude as the drive stretched on. This provided just the chance he needed to get his bearings once again. He had spent the better part of his musings trying to figure a safe way to sever the bond between himself and James (it felt almost wrong to call him Jim, like he was indulging himself in a pleasure he didn't deserve, serving to nurture this abomination of a connection his frantic mind had initiated.)

After a ponderous hour of failed ideas, a logical (yet oddly self-gratifying) voice in the back of his head suggested that he might not _want _to condemn this bond. Having skimmed the surface of the human's mind (nothing personal, and all in the name of self-preservation), Spock was shocked by how genuinely compatible he and James seemed to be.

Not like black and white, or yin and yang; like monochrome and Technicolor.

Spock was absolute ebony and ivory, one or the other, all simplicity and order, while James personified everything colorful about life. No absolute good or evil, but varying degrees of emotion that met somewhere in the middle to form opinions.

And put together, they achieved what very few people ever experienced: a full, three-hundred and sixty degree view of the universe and what kept it moving. A physiologist would've called it beautiful. Spock didn't know what to think of it, except that it was a mild nuisance.

Obvious disadvantages aside, it was a difficult thing to perceive when he thought about long-term consequences.

Should he be relieved that the only reason his mind reached out to the youngest Kirk was because their consciousnesses worked as two parts of the same whole? Relieved, knowing that he wasn't desperate enough to latch onto just anybody?

Or should he be resentful, that out of the six-and-a-half billion people on planet earth, he got stuck with the one kid he'd stick to like Velcro instinctually?

Spock wasn't even sure if he'd_ like_ the guy. All mental keys and locks aside, just because they were born with remarkably well-suited mental wavelengths doesn't necessarily mean that they would be on the same moral platform.

Even in this situation, Spock wasn't willing to delve far enough into James's conciseness to discern whether or not the young human was likable by his standards. There were just some lines you didn't cross. Unfortunately, he had a bad (or good, depending on how you looked at it) feeling they _would_ get along well, if given the chance.

Out of morbid curiosity, he had allowed the link to open again for a brief segment of time while they got situated in the car and began the long trek to his temporary home. Spock had stared dutifully out his window, seemingly lost in thought, while monitoring Jim's feelings.

The other boy had stared at the back of his head for a good fifteen minutes, emotions ranging from excitement to nervousness to amusement to boredom, before finally succumbing to sleep: Mouth gaping, snoring quietly in accompaniment to the loud, slightly out-dated pickup's engine. (No environmentally harmful emissions, of course, but still retaining the classic bump and rumble of the first earth automobiles.)

As of yet, none of the emotions that had drifted his way were malicious.

And contrary to what one might think, this did nothing to ease the troubled hybrid's mind. Not only was Spock potentially dragging down a peer, but a good person as well.

For the first time since the assault of his tormentors, however, his churning emotions were at ease, leaving some room for logic to reassert itself. And that was blessing enough for Spock to at least try and keep things optimistic.

Still, all this drastic change and violent emotion made him tired. Resolving, quite logically, to find a fix for this dilemma as soon as he was properly situated, Spock fell prey to the gentle, lethargic thought patterns a drooling Jim unknowingly lulled him with, chin falling to his chest as greenish eyelids fell peacefully shut.

In the front seat, Winona smiled at her boys in the rear view mirror. She had a good feeling about this.

----TheBeginningOfABeautifulFriendship----

Yes, Spock did reference The Beatles. In his childhood scene, 2009-verse, the learning bowl had him identify a song by John Lennon and Paul McCartney, so I thought it was only fitting that he'd be familiar with at least a bit of the Beatles work.

If I had a half-alien child growing up on a different planet, I'd definitely familiarize them with the classics. xD

I love each and every one of my thirty-four reviews. I love all you readers, too; especially the ones who **REVIEW**! Your input is taken into account! If you have ideas, tell me!


	4. Little Bird

He was giving serious thought to poking Spock awake. All things considered, it probably wasn't the **best** course of action, but the idea had burrowed its way deep into Jim's mind and refused to relinquish its vindictive appeal. Having just arrived at their two-story farmhouse, Winona had gone in to put away the groceries they'd picked up— telling Jim to 'Wake Spock gently', among other non-important things.

They'd driven all through the night, Jim and Spock sleeping sporadically on the rare stretches of road where potholes didn't keep jostling them into wakefulness. Somewhere long about hour four of their long drive, however, exhaustion had finally overwhelmed Spock: who fell into a sleep so deep not even the blaring radio they had used to help keep Winona awake roused him.

Mom had muttered something about jetlag, and trying to get their guest acquainted with Iowa's time zone in that same 'wake him up' speech, but Jim hadn't been paying enough attention to care. The caffeine buzz from his coke had only lasted the first fifteen minutes of the drive back to Riverside; and unlike lucky Spock here, Jim had issues sleeping for long periods of time in anything but a bed.

And _apparently_ they were both supposed to make it though the day awake in order to establish a normal bedtime. Yeah. On fall break? Riiiigggghhht. But who was he to burst Winona's bubble so soon?

Well, if he couldn't get any shut eye until sundown, neither could Spock. Jim was trying to be nice to the kid, sure, but _some_ kind of order had to be established if this thing was going to work, and Jim was a leader by nature. A grin (only slightly vindictive) split his face as he raised a tanned hand, pointing finger taut, perched just above Spock's bellybutton.

The poke was swift and forceful, like a declaration of mock war. He was delighted so see shivers run up the Vulcan's sides stemming from the impact point, waiting just 0.2 seconds before (with a protective flourish of his arms) Spock _bolted_ upright.

It was even better than Jim had expected.

Laughing in his loud, 'whoop'ing fashion, he almost missed the split-second transition from 'shocked-frightened child' to 'composed near-adult' that Spock's face made. Seeing that the other boy was most definitely _not _laughing, (and sincerely hoping he didn't get stuck with the **one** alien transfer student devoid of a sense of humor) Jim was quick to sheepishly explain himself.

"Mom says we can't go to sleep until nine at tonight. It's only eight in the morning right now, and we just got home." Right. This was pretty much the closest thing anyone but Winona got in lieu of an apology from the Kirk. At least it was progress from 'The look on your face- Priceless!', he figured happily.

Spock's expression didn't change, so he assumed that meant all was cool. Right up until the other boy responded in a subdued voice. "I apologize. I did not realize I was expected to acclimate to this time zone quite so quickly."

It wasn't the response Jim was expecting, and made him feel mildly… guilty, actually. Huh. Weren't many things that could do that, nowadays. If not passive acceptance of this treatment, he was expecting a 'What the hell, man?", snide look or _any_ other gesture that would generally accompany being rudely awakened by a near stranger. Not an apology. It made him feel like the bad guy.,

Jim hated feeling like the bad guy. That was Frank's job.

With a kind of resigned temperament, he decided he was going to have to handle this one with care until he knew how Spock reacted to things. Which was a damn shame, because he'd been _really_ looking foreword to seeing if the old 'hand-in-a-glass-of-water' trick worked on other species. Keep in mind that Jim's brand of 'making nice' with others was not always very conventional (or effective, for that matter.)

His reply was as uncomfortable as his train of thought. "Uh…no problem. Just thought you'd like a heads up before mom comes back out here guns blazing." Which was absurd, really, because Winona would never go 'guns blazing' on anyone but those she felt comfortable enough with to chastise (or genuinely bad people), and Spock fit into neither category. Still, sharing the blame helped ease the guilt, and Spock seemed to accept the comment gracefully.

Honestly. Sassing this guy was going to be like kicking a puppy, if this was how he reacted to ill-treatment. Still feeling like amends were in order, he hopped out of the tall vehicle, holding the door open for his placid acquaintance. He got a gentle nod for his efforts, and while it wasn't what he was used to, he was slowly coming into the idea that hey, maybe understated is just Spock's style. All the more power to him, Jim supposed, but he'd never met anyone who'd made it work for them before.

Maybe Spock would be the exception. Fervently blessing the unknown for their impeccable timing, James led the way inside without fear of running into his big, ugly asshole of a stepfather. It was a Monday (the first Monday of break, he realized with a sense of childish satisfaction), and tall-dark-and-ugly had left for work already, leaving nothing but dirty dishes in the sink and tire tracks on their driveway. He liked to fancy it was forever, but somewhere in the back of his head he had resigned himself to the fact that Frank would, without fail, be coming back every night at ten-thirty.

Still, a kid can dream, can't he?

Pulling two tall stools away from the small, rickety dining table and placing them next to each other near the kitchen counter, he gestured for Spock to sit down. The boy did so, with far too much grace for someone who was just rudely awakened.

"You drink milk, right?" It was blunt, but that's the only way Jim knew how to talk when he was tired and out of his comfort zone. Spock didn't seem to mind terribly (but then again, Spock didn't seem to mind anything.) "Yes. As long as it's organic."

Jim shot Spock a funny glance. He didn't even think they had cows on Vulcan; how'd he know about organic stuff? Not that it was an issue, since his mom seemed entirely too invested in health food, but it was an interesting thought. He filed it away for a later day. It'd probably be better to start conversation on a more… mundane topic, and work his way up to the weirder thoughts that occasionally graced his conciseness. Watching his mom dance in and out of the kitchen with groceries, humming happily, he finished pouring two glasses of whole milk and sat down next to his new 'friend', pushing the second mug over to Spock's side of the counter.

"So, what're you in for?" If his attempt at humor was appreciated, the Vulcan did a damn good job of hiding it.

Spock went through a mental checklist of 'socially acceptable replies' to a question such as that, and decided that this was neither the time nor place to inform him that, by Vulcan standards, he'd had a mental breakdown. Too many ways that could be misinterpreted.

"After much provocation and unsavory name calling directed at my maternal figure, I assaulted a peer. They say his ribs will heal flawlessly within the next year, and his broken nose was reset expertly." It wasn't exactly why he'd been sent here, and it'd happened nearly five years ago now, but it was certainly a contributing factor.

Frothy white milk came shooting at breakneck speeds out of James's nose, and Spock supposed that mustn't have been the right thing to say either. Hacking in discomfort, the human's wide, watery eyes turned to Spock in abject disbelief.

"You're shitting me!" Before Spock had the time to even _consider_ the potential implications of that sentence, Kirk had moved on, mouth running a mile a minute as he wiped furiously at the milk still dripping slowly from his nostrils.

"I mean, I'd kind of assumed you were just a basket case by this point- no offense- but beating the shit out of someone 'cause they told a 'your mom' joke? Dude, that's, just… fan-fucking-tastic! I can't wait to take you to _school_ with me, man. I've got a couple of people you just **need** to meet before I get my head shoved in the girl's toilets for being a newbie; Oh god, _Vulcan fistfights_…"

He broke off from this train of thought with a dreamy look on his face, putting his elbows on the table (and, consequently, in the snot-milk he'd exhaled not a minute ago) and his chin in his hands. Awe and good humor surged though the link at Spock, and although he had been told multiple times his actions were something so be ashamed of, he couldn't help but take pride in the juvenile sense of vigilante-ism James seemed to get out of the story.

In the subdued, so-barely-there-it's-hardly-even-valid way Vulcans could take pride, at least. Damnit. This was a bad influence.

Jim sobered up quickly enough, sniffing loudly one final time before reaching for the paper towels, cleaning up, and staring back at the Vulcan like he had something to prove.

"I drove a car off a cliff once."

…And apparently it had become a game of 'dangerous exploits' one-upmanship. The sense of fun that Jim instilled in the back of his mind made Spock give the unofficial tournament serious thought; before dismissing it as illogical and returning to his drink.

Spock's smile was in his eyes; tone unchanged, the perfect picture of composure. "I have no doubt that you did indeed."

There were a few seconds of comfortable silence, James basking in the glow of his 'victory' before:

"Wait- hey! What's that supposed to mean?!"

Spock simply stood up and went to ask Winona where he should unload his belongings. What was a 'basket-case', anyway?

----HowAreYouFeeling?---

Spock had concluded that the best way to wean this connection was to ignore it long enough to weaken it.

And so, in true recluse fashion, Spock spent the rest of his day exploring the Kirk-Malcor's expansive back-yard and looking into the fauna that lived there. Every time Jim came within earshot, he would studiously move on to another section of the field, putting as much effort into being scarce as possible without making his attempts obvious. He wasn't trying to kill the blonde's self esteem, after all.

As many of the freshman's classmates were aware, however, avoiding James T. Kirk was much easier said than done.

The Malcor-Kirks owned an old, grey bloodhound; its morose-looking eyes and drooping ears fascinating Spock. The big thing had taken a liking to him as well, it seemed; because it was now following him on his exploits, and barking back at him whenever he murmured something softly to himself. Not very constructive to hiding, to say the least.

Eventually a bored Jim caught up to him again, as Spock had resigned himself to the fact that he would. Time had flown by far faster than Spock had expected. It was now about six P.M; and James looked _exhausted_. Vulcans needed far less sleep than most other species, so Spock was alert enough for the both of them; but the way his blonde bunkmate dipped and swayed tiredly on his towards he and the old pet pulled at Spock's heartstrings.

James seemed genuinely delighted that the dog had decided Spock was good company.

"That's Delilah." He chimed happily. "I got her when I was four, and we've been best friends ever since." The animal in question seemed to nod, as if in agreement. It was an interesting bit of information. Spock had been under the impression that the title '_best_ _friend_' was only bestowed upon other sentient beings that could stimulate the other person intellectually as well as provide a suitable escort and companion. Did James prefer the company of animals to that of his own species?

He got the impression that his human host was much more social than that; but that would leave only that he 'd either found no suitable human friends or no other humans found_ him_ to be a suitable friend. And, while the boy could be somewhat obnoxious and bossy, Spock imagined that if he were human, he would've found the Kirk's company quite pleasant.

If he were human. As things stood, all the boy really was to him (at the moment) was a problematic accident waiting to be fixed, so Spock could properly try and sort out his mind. Not that he'd ever articulate the sentiment to Jim's face, about the friend situation or the 'problematic annoyance' thing (because while he may be untrained in the area of earth etiquette, he knew neither conversation was likely to go over very well.)

But he digressed. What had they been speaking of? Ah, yes. They had been talking about the dog. A sudden, violent resentment welled up inside of him, that he was so broken he couldn't even keep a single topic in mind.

"She is a rather remarkable specimen." Spock commented tonelessly, feeling very out of place in the face of Kirk's affection for the canine that poured through their strangled link.

"Yep!" James agreed whole-heartedly, petting Delilah vigorously as her slim tail waved frantically from side to side. "Mom wants'ta know what you'll eat for dinner."

Spock wasn't sure he'd heard that right. You ate what you were served, no matter what, so long as it wasn't potentially harmful to your health or compromising to your personal standpoint on consuming meat and animal by-products. Maybe this was another one of the selective oddities that his father warned him he'd have to accustom himself to? Spock's response was slow in coming: "Whatever she deems suitable, so long as one dish at least would be acceptable to a vegetarian."

In the end, politeness never hurt; ignoring, of course, the slightly wounded look that marred Jim's face at his indifferent tone. Regardless, he nodded in a slightly offended manner. "Not a problem." Jim's words curt and defensive in the face of Spock's Vulcan scorn.

The whole 'ignore him' plan wasn't working out too well. Instead of having the desired, logical effect of creating a rift between them, it just left Spock with a mild headache and less-than-desirable emotions that could be summed up by the word 'cranky'.

They were about five minutes away from the house, Spock and his canine companion having wandered farther than they realized in their explorations. Had Jim really walked all this way just to try and ask him what he wanted to eat?

A burning, unpleasant emotion began to simmer in his head. Maybe… maybe he should try and be a bit less… scornful, around these humans. Could be constructive to keeping peaceful relations- '_Bullshit,'_ an entirely emotional voice sneered at him from the human half of his personality, _'I just feel guilty because I got called out on being an icy, anti-social jerk. I'm just acting exceptionally Vulcan to save face since mom and dad kicked me out.'_

It was mean and cutting and self-loathing, but Spock knew on some level that it was true. Being Vulcan was supposed to fix all these problems! By shunning his earth heritage he was simply trying to eliminate the niggling, insecure, hateful part of him that continued to plague the back of his mind. It wasn't working so well, but what other options did he have at this point? Besides** drowning **is his own emotional deficiency, that was.

James, shoulders slumped and dark circles ringing his eyes, snapped him out of his self-imposed mental analogy. "I know you've been ignoring me. Just because we're sharing a room now doesn't mean we have to be 'best friends' or anything; you don't have to go out of your way to shun me. I'm not gonna get my feelings hurt."

The remorse and resentment that surged through their link implied otherwise, however, and suddenly Spock felt like he'd been caught with his proverbial hand in the cookie jar.

Ok. Maybe his plan wasn't the most _sensitive_ idea- but c'mon, he was grasping at straws here. Jim continued, oblivious to the already paramount discomfort Spock felt over the whole ordeal. "I know I'm not the nicest person to be around, but could you not be an asshole about it?" The Vulcan flinched. He hadn't known he would be contributing to existing social complexes and pre-conceived ideas of social ostracization.

Jim, leading the way home with an oblivious Delilah trotting along next to him, hadn't looked back to see the impact his words may or may not have had. He kept his shoulders squared, chin up, and eyes foreword, even in the face of exhaustion.

"It's just, I mean- you seemed nice enough this morning, is all. Thought you might wanna be friends." There was a slight pause, Jim's worry filled with regret inside of embarrassment overwhelming Spock as well. "Forget I said anything."

Except Spock couldn't. Because another little idea in the back of his mind, one that sounded surprisingly… Vulcan, actually, made itself known at this point. It was ancient, primal and mildly frightening- if Spock were so predisposed to fear. Which he wasn't.

_Wani yasha Yatara, no James __itisha wanimo emafa kito la-t'hy'la. __' _The terminology that side of his subconscious used to describe James made Spock pale considerably. It would explain much…

…but be completely illogical and nonsensical.

Maybe he'd gone crazier than he'd initially thought.

Regardless, it was obvious running away from the problem (and therefore being forced to wallow in the hurt feelings it caused in James) wasn't doing much good. So maybe, as hesitant as he was to admit it, the whole 'friends' thing wasn't such a terrible idea.

But… how was he supposed to go about apologizing? It was apparent that exhaustion didn't put Jim in the best of moods, and common sense states that directly after one is chewed out is _not _the optimal time to go about making amends.

An indirect approach, perhaps? It had a better chance of working than anything else that popped into mind, and if it did away with the pit of all-encompassing negativity his disposition had caused in the blonde…

Bottom line, it was worth a shot.

"…How did you say you went about driving an automobile off a precipice when distinctly underage?"

James spun around to stare at Spock, while the Vulcan tried to put on his best 'might-be-remorseful-if-I-weren't-so-emotionless' face. Three seconds of dull, tense silence. And then a slow, sugary grin stretched it's way across the distinctly human face.

"You _really _wanna know?" Spock had a feeling Jim was going to tell him even if he didn't. And for some reason, he had no problems with that.

Spock could tell that Jim was still more than mildly upset with him; but that, like all things, could be fixed with time. Spock had a feeling this was going to be simply _fascinating._

They were still conversing animatedly when Winona caught sight of them outside the kitchen window.

----OneMoreQuestion---

**A/N: **Yes, that's Vulcan Spock's subconscious uses. I thought it'd be weird to have his Vulcan instincts communicating in Federation standard. I didn't know what order to put the Vulcan words in, so I just used the English format: Subject, Verb, Object. And keep in mind that t'hy'la could also mean 'closest friend' or 'brother', so no romantic stuff has budded quite yet. Sorry. The language comes from the Vulcan Language Guide by April Publications.

To add the prefix 'la' to something marks it as honorable or important. _Wani yasha Yatara, no James itisha wanimo emafa kito la-t'hy'la.' _Basically means: 'I am Vulcan, and James is my mentally-bonded, esteemed friend/brother/lover.'

Which is pretty much just Spock's protective Vulcan side reminding him that Jim _is _important to him now, and he needs to stop being an ass. Keep in mind this is all fan language and such.

Woo! Two chapters up in three days! You know how that happened? I was motivated by **reviews! :D**


	5. My Secret Friend

Mind eased, now bearing the brunt of Jim's amusement instead of his sorrow, Spock could step back and do an inventory on the boy who would probably be a staple in his life from here foreword.

There were multiple, distanced bruises all down Jim's torso. Not having been terribly attuned to the other boy's physical presence prior to his decision to embrace Jim's humanity and regain his logic, the realization hit hard and cold. It felt like he'd done something wrong; like he'd failed a self-appointed task. Which was absurd, considering the welfare of the Kirk was no more his responsibility than the welfare of any other human. Except Jim was… slightly special, (_his charge)_ and rather fascinating _(endearingly outgoing)_, so maybe… maybe he should look into that.

Although the dinner table probably wasn't the best place. The playful banter at the small wooden table was far better than the 'awkward silence' alternative, though some of the sarcasm and referencing made during James and Winona's back-and-forth was lost on him.

He would've been slapped for saying half of these things to his mother, he knew without a doubt, but the friendly ease with which mother and son communicated here was quite a spectacle. Gratuitous insults aside, the entire thing seemed laid-back enough so that both of the humans would let the thinly veiled insults slide with good humor. It was really rather fascinating. Diatribe would never have occurred to Spock as a way to break the ice, especially with a close, elder family member. Regardless, he wasn't eager to try it on any of his Vulcan relatives. Ever.

While Spock wasn't an active participant in the conversation, only chiming in when one of them tried to recruit him for their side of the argument, ('Right, Spock?') simply being around people who seemed so… naturally accustomed to his presence was startlingly easing. Even back home, his presence in places he should've been welcomed was strenuous at best.

While it was not an activity Spock was familiar with, the way they seemed to seamlessly include him without encroaching upon his opinions was rather nice. For all of the tension he'd been expecting, the atmosphere here was a breath of fresh air (no pun intended, mind you) in the face of drastic change.

Except Jim's emotions kept brushing up against his skull with satin comfort, flowing smoothly through all of the infinitesimal cracks in his barriers and coaxing his emotions out to play. Which was not a breath of fresh air **at all**. The blonde would laugh, and warm static would tingle up Spock's back, beckoning him to reciprocate, to join in the friendly jubilation. He was in enough of his right mind to resist these frivolous urges; but they were amazing fodder to analyze and store away for future reference- using Jim's transferred emotions as a guinea pig for his methods of repression.

He was fast learning which emotions countered and nullified which others, what magnified what else and how the symphony of different senses blended together to form the spectrum of feeling he had been forcefully subjected to.

Most of all, though, he liked it when Jim was happy. It was as if sunlight leaked, warm, daisy-yellow and totally relaxed, through every anxious, pessimistic bone in his body, easing the tension and leaving a pleasant burn in its place. That was a dangerous state of affairs, being so totally unaware of himself in the foreign haze of pleasure simple happiness brought him; but it was also, in its own way, the saving grace he was looking for. Happiness seemed to nullify all other emotions to an extent: dulling pain, heartache and abandonment to a mild throb in the back of his conciseness.

When Jim was happy, Spock wasn't sad anymore. Not to say he was completely and utterly absolved of all misgivings, or even happy himself: but James' joy lulled his other emotions into a state of security through which logic could placidly reassert itself.

And so it was that Spock's Theorem was postulated. Scientific to the end, each new emotional finding was not taken for granted like it was in many other, more expressive cultures, but analyzed and classified into organized groups before he could even think about testing his hypothesis' regarding them.

As of yet, the appropriately named 'Spock's Theorem' was the only one he could prove, and it went a little something like this: _'All negative emotions are directly proportionate to the amount of positive emotions one is subjected to. If the good outweighs the bad by whatever margin or plurality, reason will a better chance to assert itself when called upon.'_

A long winded explanation for a reaction dating back to the Stone Age, Spock supposed, but having it so structured in his mind helped ease the scholar at heart. People did not stop eating, stop getting out of bed, stop _caring_ due to a love of life. It was depression, anxiety and inferiority that had that kind of effect on the sentient psyche. The happier one is, the more productive their thoughts and actions.

…So it appeared (the irony of the situation not lost on Spock) that in order to regain his logic, emotion was needed. And that would've been all well and good, except that Spock didn't know what made him happy. How does one figure what invokes joy or exhilaration other than experiencing the ups and downs of certain things across their lifespan? Spock wasn't provided a childhood where figuring out what satisfied his emotional need for joy was socially acceptable.

The only thing he was positive brought him joy was… making Jim happy, and absorbing that rush through the connection. While it seemed vaguely underhanded, he supposed such a breach of mental security could be accepted under the consideration that his only objective was to delight the bright eyed boy.

Spock pretended the thought of being the recipient of such a radiant smile didn't fill him with an overwhelming sense of accomplishment. The phrase 'unhealthy emotional attachment' was about to be taken to a whole new level.

"Spock? You ok in there?"

It took him a second to realize he'd been staring intently at the ceiling fan for the last few minutes, chewing the same bite of mashed potatoes with a single minded-determination usually saved for things like philosophy and rocket science. The look on Kirk's face might've been comical if it wasn't directed at him.

Submerged in an emotional sea as Spock was, he had the decency to blush green at the tips of his ears, and fervently hope that the gesture was not recognized as such.

"Yes, I'm quite alright. Thank you for your concern." Spock didn't know how _not _to be formal, but the words of gratitude tacked onto the end of that quiet little sentence seemed to go a long way towards Jim forgiving his previous actions. Winona cut into the conversation before her son could reply in kind.

"Not a problem, dear. Jim and I were just discussing my husband, Frank."

From the nasty wavelengths James sent out at the name, Spock could soundly infer that 'discussing' was not the best term for what they must've been doing. His attention was brought back to the unusual flow of blood he could hear rushing to multiple spots on Jim's pale torso, indicating a flaw on thin human flesh. Something undoubtedly unhealthy boiled dangerously at the very edge of Spock's precarious mind, where reason met rage.

'_Shiyau thol'es k'thorai ri k'ahm. James' muhl'es qual vah yauluhk vah fan-vel i'. _As potentially sad as the idea was, it had more than an ounce of truth in it. He supposed physical soundness did play a significant part in the overall mood of a person…

…so he'd have to fix this 'Frank' problem as soon as possible. "I anticipate the opportunity to meet him." Except for that little voice wedged in the back of his awareness, screaming _'Protect! Protect! Protect!' _That part of him wasn't too keen on the idea. In fact, it seemed to have an unhealthy investment in the prospect of skirting future problems with Winona's husband using base intimidation-

-but he had more control over himself than that. Right.

Jim's snort was loud and condescending. "Trust me here, you don't." Winona shot him a pained, exasperated look, but didn't comment on the matter, instead choosing to try and switch topics. "There's a get together at one of Jimmy's classmates houses tomorrow night- we were wondering if you wanted to join him."

The look on Jim's face made his preference clear. Kicking his mothers shin under the table and looking utterly miserable, he turned to Spock with a kind of resigned expectance.

Spock knew he wasn't the most socially acceptable person to hang around with, and that he had been cautioned against going into large crowds while his telepathic tendencies were still stabilizing (hence he was sent to middle-of-nowhere Iowa instead of, say, a science institute where he might further his adolescent studies)-

But it hurt that Jim so obviously didn't want his company at the get-together. He supposed, with a kind of detached criticality, that this is what being ignored must've felt like. "I… am not supposed to venture far into large groups of people until I am more accustomed to my environment. Perhaps, if it isn't a bother, I will stay here and attempt to set up a suitable meditation core on this planet."

This was utter bull, since his body had attuned itself to Earth's biosphere while he was sleeping on the car ride over. At least it was better than 'your son thinks I'm a nuisance, so I'll make myself scarce and hope I haven't already blown my chance at mental salvation.' That would seem far too clingy.

Jim's sigh of relief was like a knife to the gut, and Spock suddenly regretted opening his senses to the joy when the pain came with it. At least Winona put forth effort to turn the downward spiral into a positive. "Of course, Spock, I'd love company. It gets quite lonely when my little Jimmy _and_ Frank are out of the house." She continued talking, but Spock's attention span was dead. Taking into account his track record of things like that over the last month, it was a wonder he'd stayed coherent this long.

While Jim's happiness remained, Spock's feeling of inadequacy had magnified in the face of being unwanted- and so his Theorem was brought into play for the first time since it's formation. He didn't have much of an appetite anymore.

---AHoleInYourLogic----

He didn't know _why_ mom had felt the need to bring the pre-Halloween party up, but Jim was glad Spock had declined the invitation.

At least he thought he'd be. While he didn't have any friends to meet up with or places to go afterwards, Suzy Janice was going to be at the party: and if he was going to have the slightest chance of wooing her loveliness, an introverted Vulcan tagalong wasn't going to help. Not that Jim had any room to talk about introverted, but at least _**he**_ spoke in conjunctions. That concept seemed to escape Spock, deceptively intelligent as the extra-terrestrial seemed to be.

It wasn't that he was trying to get rid of the guy (quite the opposite), just that he had a_ plan_ for tomorrow, and this delicate operation required things to go exactly as planned, with no unknown variables accounted for or allowed. Uh-huh.

So why did he feel like he'd just crushed someone's childhood dreams? Despair, resignation and a sense of self-loathing hopefulness radiated from that spot at the base of his skull again, more of a headache than an itch.

Spock had stopped eating dinner. Their could've been a number of reasons for this, but something innocent and sympathetic inside of him was screaming _'It's all our fault! Heartless!'_ Rather absurd, since he hadn't actually _said_ anything contrary to Spock coming with him. Sure, his body language may have been a bit overboard, but that didn't mean he'd been sending the guy bad juju vibes about going!

Spock's eyes had lowered to the floor, and the sense of despair that didn't feel like his had risen to new heights. _'Fix it. He's__** ours **__now.' _Ah, shit. Not even his thoughts seemed to be decipherable anymore. What was _'__**ours**__' _supposed to mean? Slavery was abolished in the nineteenth century.

Get'cher head on straight, Jim_._ _'Although 'mine' has a nice ring to it…'_

Nu-uh. Not listening to the voices in my head, since Spock's mood swings aren't my fault. I'm still being nice, I'm still putting effort into building a relationship- he doesn't need to tag along every place I go.

'… _but I want him to.'_

Nononono**no**. Lies. All he wanted was his one chance to get Suzy away from her vapid, giggling friends, and convince her he was the guy to be there for her. _'Just like I should be there for Spock.'_ Except for not. Because Spock wasn't his responsibility.

Think of Suzy, and her pretty red hair, and her freckles, and-

The door to the Malcor household opened with a rusty creak. James froze, eyes darting nervously to the clock. Ten thirty. _Extra-fuck._

Winona's entire face lit up. "Frank!" It was the jubilant cry of a woman in love, and Jim was once again reminded against his will why he couldn't just pull a phaser on the dude and tell him to get-the-hell outta here. Through the kitchen doorway he saw the two embrace tenderly, and was thankful that (even if the asshole hated _his_ guts) Frank's affection for his mother was genuine.

Spock watched from his vantage point with a sort of detached disinterest. Guilt crept up venomously on Jim once again, but he shook it off like a pro. Frank's distasteful stare bored into his forehead. "Jimbo."

The tension was so thick; it couldn't have been cut if you took a steak knife to it. Luckily, Spock had something sharper.

"_**Sir.**_" Spock positively **snarled** the title, like it left a bad taste in his mouth. The low, menacing tenor seemed to visibly unnerve Frank. It was like all of Jim's distaste for the man had been translated into Spock's tone and body language. There were a few seconds of scared, confused silence, before Frank gave Spock a stiff, cursory nod and threw Winona a 'What-the-fuck-is-this-kid's-defect?' look, heading upstairs without even stopping to grab himself a plate of leftovers.

It then hit Jim like a sack of bricks. The best sack of bricks ever, that is. '_Frank's __intimidated__ by Spock.' _And Spock, apparently, was on his side.

Oh _yes_; on second thought, this vacation was going to go simply _wonderfully_. He shot the Vulcan an absolutely radiant look, and the somber mood that had draped itself over the brown-eyed boy lifted like a dust cloud. "C'mon, let's get ready for bed."

James was practically vibrating with the possibilities as he walked, Spock following suit. They trekked up the stairs and to the left together, with the hybrid riding on the coat-tails of Jim's hi, before they reached the human's brightly painted blue bedroom. He was landed with the bottom bunk of the two story bed monopolizing most of the tall room, his new 'friend' chirping at him that the bathroom was at the end of the hall and breakfast was at eight.

He should not have threatened James' stepfather like that. The smile he received might've been worth it, though.

----YouPromisedYouWouldLoveUs----

Spock began tossing and turning in the throws of a terrible nightmare long about one o'clock.

James woke up screaming, harboring a killer migraine at roughly two. It was like his skull had exploded into tiny little pieces, the shrapnel of thick bone cutting painfully into every crevice of his brain. But that wasn't why he'd been pitching a fit. He'd… seen things. Memories that weren't his, of a place he'd never been.

High, logically structured archways and concavities in the floor, the building in his dream had been rather impressive on its own. Just like it's taller, upperclassmen inhabitants, swathed in black clothing and towering over him, throwing insults like facts, as casually as if they were discussing the weather.

And it hurt _so damn much_. Something told him, for whatever reason, that it shouldn't feel like that, shouldn't feel at all, because he was Vulcan and feelings were _not_…-

-but every time a word was said against his parenting, against his kind, gentle mother or patient father, he felt the futile need to defend them against he poisonous seeming false accusations. But he couldn't. Not without giving the bullies exactly what they wanted. It was a brand of pure hopelessness that Jim had never encountered before, and hoped never to encounter again.

These memories did not belong to him, but waking up in a sweat and listening to his bunkmate's labored breathing, he had a good idea of who's they were.

James stumbled aimlessly down the thick wooden ladder of the bed, clumsily jumping the last two rungs and landing on the thinly carpeted floor. The perspiration was now cooling on his skin and pajamas, feeling disgusting, cold and slimy, but he couldn't bring himself to care just yet. Lurching foreward, he grabbed the front of Spock's thick cotton nightshirt (something about Vulcan being significantly warmer than Earth) and tugged back and forth frantically. His voice was rough from screaming and thick from sleep. "Come on, Spock. Wake up now."

Nothing was happening. The movement only Seemed to aggravate the nightmare further, Spock now beginning to snarl and thrash at James like he was a threat. Jim, still not quite awake enough to formulate a rational response, slapped Spock.

Frightened and now in legitimate pain, the other boy _lunged_. Eyes wide and pupils dilated, the pale face above Jim was twisted into something beyond human or Vulcan. His mouth was a death-trap of surprisingly sharp teeth and gnashing jaw muscles, forehead in grim knots. The wide, gentle eyes had narrowed to mere slits, large pupils darting back and forth across Jim's face, seeing but not comprehending. Kirk had to fight the urge to wet himself.

They stayed this way for exactly two point eight seconds, the low growling coming from the pit of Spock's chest telling the oldest part of Jim's purely human brain that he was _fucked._

Then, oddly enough, all of the tension simply _drained_ from Spock's body, the grip on his shoulders becoming bracing instead of painful. All of the previously hostile features softened in one swift movement (moonlight teeming into Jim's bedroom making the transformation seem more than eerie.)

There was still some kind of rumbling pouring out of Spock's now slightly parted, very confused lips, but it honestly sounded more like_ purri—_

His thought was cut off before it could fully take form. "Qual se tu?"

Jim didn't know what to make of the sentence, but decided (since it seemed he was no longer in imminent danger of having his heart gnawed out) he may as well respond gently. Gently, of course, being the keyword. "Huh?" It wasn't as eloquent as it'd sounded in his head. "It's just me, Spock. Just Jim."

The words took a second to register. With them, apparently, came an acute awareness of Spock's being. He nearly fell over backwards in an attempt to remove himself from the general vicinity of Jim.

"I- I apologize." Not much else could be said without divulging far more information than either of them was comfortable with. Jim seemed to accept that with surprising reserve.

"Not a problem. You sounded like you needed a reality check."

Spock politely failed to mention it appeared that Jim had been having quite a nightmare himself.

Weighing options, James decided if Spock wasn't going to breach the subject of what the hell just happened, he wasn't dealing with whatever the repercussions of _dreaming someone else's nightmare_ may be tonight.

There were some things that just _weren't _approachable subjects in the wee hours of the morning. This was, as it was fast becoming clear to both of them, one of them. Both out of breath, panting, sweating and equally disheveled, Jim was the first to drag himself up and nearer to the ladder. He glanced quickly back once, before climbing carefully up.

"Ummm…. G'night?"

Humiliated and shaken, the green-flushed boy nodded towards the general vicinity of where Kirk was on the upper bunk. It would actually be 'good morning' at this point, but he wasn't going to nitpick Jim's grammar _directly _after attacking him. Spock resisted the urge to bang his cranium against the nearest solid object and slithered back under his covers.

He just _sincerely_ hoped that one of the answers Jim would undoubtedly want from him when they woke up _wasn't_ a translation.

**----**ItGivesALovelyLight----

**A/N: **This chapter is for Kalea CrimsonMoon's birthday! :D Happy belated B-day!

'_Shiyau thol'es k'thorai ri k'ahm. James' muhl'es qual vah yauluhk vah fan-vel i': '_Nobility lies in action, not name. (One of Surak's teachings.) James' health is as important as anything (Implied: 'to me') at this point.'

'_Qual se tu?'_- Is it you? Tu is the intimate pronoun saved for ones t'hy'la, FYI, which is why I didn't just tack t'hy'la to the end of that sentence anyway.

Both sentences taken from an online archive of the Vulcan language I found. Yay internet, huh?

Please review! I take suggestions and listen to feedback! You guys've been sooo great about reviewing so far- please keep it up!


	6. Morningside

Morning light came deceptively late, the lack of Vulcan's triumvirate suns messing with Spock's internal clock. He lay still for the first few seconds of wakefulness, listening to the steady breathing from the bunk above him and contemplating what he might say in lieu of both explanation and apology. He _would_ have to explain himself, he had resigned himself, and his shameful actions.

But, based on Jim's steady snores above him, not quite yet. The grey morning light (if Spock had to hazard a guess, he would've said it was around seven) illuminated the entire room to his sensitive eyes, all worn in and homely and simply _Jim._ Which, if the butterflies in his stomach at the thought was any indication, was a good thing. Delilah snored loudly on the floor next to him, wheezy, uneven patterns giving the odd, otherworldly scene and lighting a more real feel. She must've padded in sometime after he'd fallen asleep the second time. Still mildly drowsy, he slipped silently off the old, springy mattress and found purchase on the floor, feet soundless and feather light.

Their bunk wasn't terribly tall, and from his proud height on the floor he could make out Jim's curled outline under the thick covers and a mop of messy ash-blonde hair. Rubbing the sleep out of the corners of his eyes in a distinctly human gesture, Spock climbed the first rung of the ladder to get a better look at the normally excitable boy in such a peaceful, almost comatose state.

Lips parted, Jim was drooling ever so slightly on his cream colored pillow, seeming remarkably comfortable for a man assaulted by a furious extra terrestrial not a day ago. Cautiously, feeling like he was indulging himself in metaphorical forbidden fruit, Spock touched the pad of his pale finger to James' exposed arm and gave their bond a prod, opening himself up to whatever Jim might reciprocate with. Thoughts, ideas and urges began to trickle like molasses from the leaky, homely connection; eventually steadying into an unending flow of human conciseness, all of Jim just as he was at the moment siphoned into Spock's mind.

He could feel James' dream in his head, pleading and beckoning and trying to coax Spock back into pleasant nothingness with secondhand lethargy. Spock didn't let it, but the sentiment was nice. At least on some natural, primal level Jim was more inclined to trust him than not. Although he sorely wanted to call it progress, he knew it was probably just their compatibility working it's wonders with the prolonged exposure they'd had. He could hear the other, slower heartbeat syncing up to match his. Jim's mind, in this state, was warm and secure; the bad things, fears, pain hand hatred pushed up against the fringes of his brain, to be ignored and forgotten in this one state of bliss his biology offered him: rest, plain and simple.

He didn't envy James this one reprieve. While Spock didn't like his identity, at least he was free to express it around those he cared most about( his steadfast parents); for a human so secure in who he was and who he was going to be as Jim was, such blatant disapproval from his adopted father figure must be… excruciating.

'_Gishen worla ihk-banut.' _Spock heaved a long sigh and James grunted ever so slightly, leaning into the soft touch. The Vulcan recoiled.

Conspicuously, dark eyes shifting up and down Jim's blanketed body, he braced himself and delved face-first into the sea of calm emotions the human was lucky enough to possess.

The indistinct part of Kirk that recognized Spock's telepathic signature seemed delighted he had decided to intrude. Emotions that embodied 'Hiya!'s and childish, endearing 'Missed you's swirled serenely around where he had dipped himself into terran thought waves.

Much more skilled in the fine art of constructing translatable thought patterns, Spock sent out what he supposed was the equivalent of am emotional embrace (such things weren't done on Vulcan, after all) in an attempt to influence some sort of positive reaction. Jim smiled serenely in his sleep, burrowing deeper into the covers. Maybe he was better at this than he'd initially thought.

…fascinating.

Drenched once again in the innocent sea of affection that he knew on some subconscious level wasn't really for him, just an automatic reaction to positive feedback and treatment, Spock weaned the link once more until there was almost nothing left and turned to shower and brush his teeth.

It had all been in the name of science, of course.

----TwoHeartsWithAccurateDevotion---

Jim could've _sworn _Spock was next to him a split second ago. He woke up thinking about the Vulcan; still half in dreamy limbo, he'd been _convinced_ he could feel the solemn boy's incredible warmth, steadfast next to him.

That was before he realized that, in his tiny twin sized bed, it would've been physically impossible for Spock to slip into the upper bunk with if even if he'd _wanted _to. This was highly unlikely, since Spock was touch allergic or something and they'd gone to sleep on… less than optimal terms.

That and the fact that if the Vulcan _had _climbed up here with him it would've been really creepy. He should really have more problems with that scenario than he actually did. As it stood, it all seemed rather… comforting.

With the realization that Spock was not anywhere near him came the realization that he was not, in fact, basking in the Vulcan's pleasant, inhuman warmth. And that he'd kicked the covers off of his boxer clad form sometime in the might, and now had goose-flesh running the length of his thighs.

Face quickly pulling into a mulish grimace, he reached down and rubbed his hands up and down his sides rapidly in a futile attempt to warm himself up faster. It wasn't particularly cold in the room, but his ceiling fan had been on all might, and the prolonged breeze wasn't a pleasant wake-up call.

Shivering resentfully, he crawled towards his wooden ladder and stumbled down it. Jumping the last two rungs and 'thumping' loudly onto the floor, he turned to Spock's bed and-

-blinked owlishly at the neatly made bottom bunk. He knew there was a good chance Spock would've woke up earlier than him- but looking over and not seeing the pale Vulcan there, sleeping peacefully, was inexplicably disappointing. He must've already gone downstairs. Raising his arms in a great arch above his head, Jim regarded the cracks and pops of his vertebrae with a pleased sigh.

Jumping up and down noisily in an attempt to get his blood flowing, Jim lurched out of his room in nothing more than plain grey sweatpants and black boxers, deciding that personal hygiene could wait until he'd acquired breakfast.

Skipping the stairs two and three at a time, Jim rounded the corner into the kitchen/dining room hybrid with an obnoxious grin plastered to his face. Sparing Winona a sloppy kiss on the cheek as he stumbled tiredly past and fell into his chair, he attacked a large mouthful of toast before turning to look at an already situated Spock.

The other boy hadn't even batted an eyelash at his entrance. Every midnight black hair was undisturbed, no signs of lost sleep, eyebrows arched in a perfectly neutral position. For reasons unknown, seeing Spock so laid back was surprisingly heartwarming. Leaning briefly left in his rickety wooden chair, he brushed shoulders with Spock in a gesture of friendly comradery and grinned. "Mornin'!"

One eyebrow raised almost unreceptively on the thin face. "It is indeed morning. Why are you bringing it to my attention?"

Jim shot him a deadpanned (if slightly indulgent) look.

"It means 'good morning', genius. You know: 'salutations', 'top of the mornin', however you wanna say it." The alien didn't miss a beat. "Then why did you not simply articulate the sentiment in the first place? Or is your improper grammar another genre of 'slang' to which I have not yet been introduced?" The stare said he very well knew it wasn't 'slang', but their banter didn't quite seem malicious.

If Jim didn't know better, he would've thought Spock was… teasing him. What a universe. He finally swallowed his toast, eyes flicking to Winona conspiratorially before returning to Spock with more intensity than before. "So, what was with all of the…" he made a vague hand gesture, as if it could encompass all of his thoughts in one fell swoop, "_stuff_ last night. This morning, really."

Any friendly air that might've been dissipated instantly. Even without giving an outward hint of disquiet, James could tell Spock was more than mildly uncomfortable. After a few seconds he received a reply, soft and halting and carefully chosen. "You… startled me. I'm unaccustomed to being woken by anything other than my own internal clock, much less by hostile means." Jim flinched sheepishly, but the hybrid didn't sound accusing. Didn't sound anything, actually, but that was beside the point.

"I reacted on faulty instinct. I'll endeavor not to let it happen again." Nodding helpfully, the Kirk gave Spock a look that said 'I know you're hiding something but I'll let it drop for now' and plowed on to his next question.

"And the dream thing? What was that?" Spock twitched uncomfortably in the spotlight. Think fast, think fast, think _faster…_

"My distress was causing me to project any emotions and memories I was experiencing. It is unfortunate that you were caught in the proverbial crossfire." James took the bait. Shaking his head vigorously, messy hair flying, Jim countered his apology with an enthusiasm Spock was beginning to associate with everything about the young human. "No way! I mean, it was actually pretty cool: if the whole scenario hadn't been so bleak, that is. Can you do it again?"

Spock paled. Perhaps his response hadn't been the best diversion after all. "Matters of the mind are intensely private to the Vulcan people." It sounded harsher and much more clipped than the brown-eyed boy intended.

Jim turned away then, looking a bit downtrodden, and Spock had enough in him to be a bit sorrowful for letting him down. There were a few seconds of tactful silence before the illusion was shot to hell.

"So I guess Vulcan's not really all that and a bag of Doritos, huh? That _was_ the kid you ended up pummeling, right? Hell, if it were me, I'd see the whole situation as a badge of honor sort of thing. 'This is what happens when you mess with me, hombres!'" James sniggered into his orange juice (placed in front of him seconds previous by Winona.)

Spock gave him a shrewd look, but couldn't bring himself to be offended. "Are you always this insensitive, or is it what I've heard referred to as a 'morning thing'?" Kirk hummed proudly. "Always. But you've got no emotions, so I figured I'd just let loose on you since chances of you getting offended are slim to none."

The look in blue eyes said he knew that was bullshit, but Spock wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of verbally confirming the whole 'blind, irrational lash out' thing as an emotional response. While he was obviously not as above feeling as he'd thought, he was still above _admitting _to it.

"Frank's gonna be at work most of today- he has to leave before breakfast, thank god, so coming in more contact with him than necessary shouldn't be much of a problem." Spock was glad.

He couldn't be accountable for his actions if the Neanderthal laid another hostile hand on his t'hy'la. It was becoming increasingly apparent that Jim was, in fact, just that to him.

And then there was the fact that the human had had either enough grace or obliviousness not to request a translation of last night's sleepy inquiry. If Vulcans were so inclined to such displays of affection, Spock might've kissed him.

----IfYouGo----

They lounged around the kitchen a bit longer; the sense of idleness less uncomfortable than Spock had thought it'd make him. He had always needed something to keep him mentally stimulated, keep the darker spectrum of musings away, but around Jim the whole concept of self-depreciation seemed to dissipate.

And then Jim left. Spock had known it was going to happen eventually, having discussed the subject of haircuts and primping (though Kirk refused to acknowledge it as such) for the social gathering; but having it actually occur was something else entirely.

It was the first time since he'd arrived on this planet that he'd been left completely to his own devices. There was always someone in the adjacent room, James or Winona peeking around a corner or asking a question or simply needing a reassurance that he was still present and pleased with his new surroundings.

Now it was three in the afternoon, with Winona outside in the grey light hanging clothes up to dry (their dryer had broken, and it wasn't easy to find fast service when you live in the middle of nowhere) and humming an aimless song. This left Spock to his own devices inside the house.

This was an experience he imagined he would've welcomed; but yet again, reality and concept differed vastly for him. It seemed lonely and oppressive, being stuck in this house without Jim.

Spock felt like an unplugged appliance, out of commission and without any power, waiting until his purpose was once again discerned and he could be useful once more. After twenty minutes of trying (and failing) at meditation, he opened the back door overlooking the twilight fields of the Malcor-Kirk's home and beckoned Delilah in for company.

Contrary to popular belief, Vulcans are a very co-dependent species. Logic dictates you help your fellow in their time of need, come together for a common cause when one is not enough to do a job. They might not be warm and touchy-feely about it, but it was there and prominent and Spock missed it.

His contact had been cut off; and while too much interaction did worse than nothing for his fractured psyche, being utterly alone didn't help either. He wanted Jim. It was stupid and nonsensical, since any compassionate contact should've been sufficient, but some level of his head beyond waking comprehension had declared Kirk was the companion of choice.

They did fit remarkably well. But that still didn't account for the fact that he was sitting in the dark, brooding and running his fingers in a soothing pattern over Delilah's fur. He _did_ recognize what the family saw in the bloodhound companion; obvious disadvantages aside, canines seemed to have a remarkable effect on the sentient mindset.

Naturally good-natured enough to put up with humanoid moods and temperament, intelligent enough to provide a satisfactory outlet for conversation without having to fret over negative responses or criticism. She was big, soft, and loved (so far as she could, Spock supposed) unconditionally. The lack of Jim's presence, though, so soon after his resolve to nurture a positive relationship, was jarring.

It was like ripping a band-aid off a wound that hadn't quite healed yet. As though responding to her new friend's spiraling thoughts, the dog let out a despondent whine and buried her head further under Spock's arm.

Meditation had failed with epic grandeur. Every time he managed to find his center, to grasp and latch onto a focus for meditation, it always managed to switch gears to monitoring the vague wavelengths he could still pick up from his runaway roommate. Bad vibes coiled and pitched in the pit of his stomach, a nagging feeling of foreboding entering his mind each time the concept of Jim, alone without him resurfaced.

And not the 'I'm lonely and codependent' type either, his notions were of the 'something bad is going down at some point today' genre. Precognition was impossible for any Vulcan so young and inexperienced in the teachings of Kolinar, but occasionally fate (karma, destiny whatever you wanted to call it) did drop hints even to the not-so-enlightened.

He was convinced he was just being paranoid. It was a stupid concept, James being in peril at the _party_ he intended to attend later in the evening. The human had made due splendidly on such occasions before Spock waltzed into his life, and he could continue to do so without the Vulcan interference. Most likely.

The same part of him invested in keeping Jim happy snarled it's disapproval. Even if danger wasn't imminent, Spock should be there. He had made James his responsibility.

In retrospect, his family probably couldn't have found a worse time to send him away. Changes in his body and mind were running rampant, and in the midst of such things it was always a good idea to have at least one constant in life.

Be it home, friends or parents…

But those weren't within grasp now. All he had was Jim, the boy with the blinding smile who he'd only just met. And he wasn't sure what to do if he lost him. Closing his eyes too tightly and watching the fireworks go off behind the lids, Spock let sensations overwhelm him and tried not to care about any one thing in particular.

---WatchingYourWorldFromAfar----

James… had a huge problem. For reasons unknown, through some instinctual process of deliberation, he genuinely _liked _Spock. And, by fates cruel sense of humor, he had no idea how to go about making the Vulcan like him back.

Friends had never really been an issue before; he was a fairly independent person, and everybody was either decidedly against him or not worth the effort. That and the fact that he was pretty damn sure friendship constituted feelings of the warm-and-fuzzy genre.

Still, hecould tell Spock had been making the effort. For a kid who'd never been allowed to feel anything, to _enjoy_ life as anything other than his contribution to the whole around him, Spock had been remarkably nice to him.

In a weird, unpracticed, endearingly specific and antisocial way.

Running a hand through his newly styled hair and heaving a sigh, Jim paced the sidewalk next to the lone superstore of Riverside, bemoaning his obliviousness. While getting some alone time with his crush was certainly going to be worth it if all went according to plan, banning what might be his first more than fair-weather friend from the rest of his restricted social life probably wasn't how he was supposed to go about things.

It hadn't occurred to him before, but Spock didn't actually have a link to the outside world without he and Winona. Rolling his shoulders, popping his neck and glancing down at his hand-me-down watch, he realized he should probably start heading over to his final destination with no small amount of anticipation.

'Spock can come with me next time.'

It soothed his aching conscience, even if they were just empty, unsaid words at this point, and brushed past the trepidation coiling in the pit of his stomach that _something_ was going to go wrong.

---DoingItForTheThrill----

**A/N**: Sorry for the wait! First quarter's closing up, and I've had a bi*ch-load of tests to take care of.

'_Gishen worla ihk-banut.'- _He's never what I expect.

Mhmmmm… the party's going to be fun to write. Do the words 'Murphy's Law' mean anything to you guys?

Keep reviewing please! God, you guys've been awesome about it so far.

I'm also kind of toying with a long 'Heroes' (PeterxSylar) one-shot at the moment; would anybody bother reading it if I did tie it up and post it?

Much affection!


	7. Castle Down

There was nothing particular or extraordinary about that night. The lack of pollution in this part of the Midwest was a blessing, allowing an undisturbed view of the galaxy surrounding the small, intergalactic hub that was earth. Spock's dark eyes ran smoothly back and forth in methodic rows, mapping every star and solar system he could pick out from the roof of the farmhouse that would become 'home'.

If was relatively fascinating how, once you were separated from your childhood abode, the difference between 'a house' and 'your home' become more distinct. Same denotation, vastly different connotations. He was not at home here, not yet, and that fact was made abundantly clear now that he was so alone in his new environment. While Spock knew 'alone' wasn't really the correct word; Winona was in the kitchen after all, whistling a happy little tune, alone was how he _felt_ (he was here to heal from things like this, and maybe admitting to it would give him closure.)

Isolated and abandoned were the first two words that came to mind— Delilah's company only going so far towards his security. He was trying to view these emotions as a purely scientific procedure, a creative add on to his progressive theorem; the effects of loneliness on the human psyche. It wasn't working.

Spock was fairly certain Jim was happy at the party, which meant he should be content as well; except he wasn't. James' happiness, in this particular instance, had nothing to do with Spock or his efforts, and was therefore an experience Spock could not take part in. This uselessness _wasn't_ a feeling he allowed himself to wallow in.

He was sitting on the roof in one of Jim's ratty old night-T's Mrs. Malcor had given him until his own PJ's came out of the wash. They were too dirty, drenched in sweat from last night, caused by fear he shouldn't have. Almost single-mindedly, he kneaded the fabric thoughtfully between his palms. Something inside of him protested the wrongness of his current situation. He had become a ship stick in foreign waters, his anchor having simply gotten up and left.

Jim was gone, because he favored human companionship over that of Spock. It a cold, slimy truth that stopped the hybrid from simply rising and going to retrieve his acquaintance- the thought that he might be unwanted, or that his presence might embarrass Jim in some way. Too human to be accepted in the Vulcan culture, to Vulcan to be around humans. It seemed his place would only ever be in perpetual social limbo: brilliant in the way that nobody ever seemed to care about.

Roofing rough under his bare, slender feet, Spock pulled his legs under him in an attempt to conserve warmth and continued to stare absently at the sky. It looked all wrong to him- with the wrong constellations and the wrong color tint, as if viewed through some funhouse mirror; then again, these were not Vulcan stars.

He was still convinced something was going to end up awry. That slimy jerk Frank (he loathed to use such uncultured, colorful metaphors, but he'd make an exception for the man who he was sure had injured innocent James at some point) might be where the vibe was coming from, but he was inclined to doubt it. It contained a more pressing sense of urgency than that, as if something was about to go very wrong, very soon is Spock didn't find the problem and make himself the solution.

While he acknowledged that Frank was their (he and Jim's, that was) common foe, that war would require more wit than aggression- bark over bite, if you will. His tended to be a more subtle kind of 'evil', whereas this just felt like… hurt. Pain and ridicule, in all of the worst ways. But Jim could make it through whatever it was alone. If not, he would've had the good sense to invite Spock along… right?

There were bigger parties with better food and louder music going on, but this was the one Jim (and the vast majority of Riverside High, it seemed) wanted to be at. No longer having to flick his mop of light russet hair out of his eyes every two seconds (It looked substantially darker when still damp), face clean and eyes bright, he navigated the living room turned dance hall with a spring in his step. After flicking aside the little, niggling conscience telling him to go home, to teach Spock how to play violent video games and put the only person who seemed to genuinely want his attention before the girl who had been shunning those same attentions since seventh grade, Jim searched for the telltale hair and voice of an angel of his dream girl like a man on a mission.

It was as if, in the face of all these people, the large house had shrunk, leaving only tiny entry and exit points for one to navigate through. His shoulders were always touching someone else's, constant contact taken for granted in this throng of young humanity. Wearing dark navy jeans and a black dress shirt with delicate, hardly detectible wings embroidered on his shoulder blades, he fancied he would've been the center of all attention if he wasn't a discriminated against freshman- never let it be said that his ego suffered from his apparent lack of popularity.

The concept that Spock would've appreciated his 'frivolous yet aesthetically pleasing efforts' was filed away as soon as it popped up, along with the guilt. Something logical (that, since the sophomore's arrival, had adopted Spock's baritone) in his teenage thought processes told him that if he weren't so busy chasing skirts he had no chance of fitting into, maybe he and Spock could be talking now, plotting against Frank together. It was a strange sensation; normally things like consideration of others would never be able to take precedence over girls and school. Jim had to wonder, with affectionate humor, if he had begun accidentally riding along on the coat tails of Spock's emotional mellow.

Not that it would surprise him. The other boy tended to bring out the best in him- best sense of humor, best emotions, best intelligence. They were simply better together, it seemed. He became lost in thought as he scoured the household for his prospective girlfriend.

James didn't make it to Suzy. In his leisurely search, he had made his way into the kitchen: which was, both luckily and unfortunately, exactly where she was. Much to his dismay, however, that was also the general vicinity of Adam Muchid; the slightly overweight tank of a junior he'd taken to calling 'cupcake' in one of his finer moments of verbal triumph over the boy. They had been in a public area at the time, of course- such that the other boy couldn't take a swing at him without having several teachers on his fat ass in a milky-way minute.

And while Jim may not be the captain of the football team or president of any clubs, he was unparalleled when it came to mincing words, especially so when his opponent was a C-student, backwater jerk like Adam. On the flipside, the stupid oaf and Suzy had been neighbors since diapers and 'friends' just as long, and Adam always seemed to linger in the shadows around her at school. If there was one instance in which Jim's self-preservation instinct came through for him, it was when addressing the subject of _not-letting-Cupcake-or-any-of-his-sprinkle-drones-get-you-alone_. On the topic of physical bullying, they meant business when they could get away with it.

Except that apparently getting him alone was, it seemed, the agreed upon plan for tonight, and the bruising hand that clasped his shoulder as soon as he came into sight didn't feel too keen on letting this one slide. There was a side door by the pantry leading outside onto a concrete porch, dimly lit and vacated of the innocent partygoers that swarmed inside.

"I thought you weren't going to show up, _Mr. Kirk_. I **know** I remember telling you not to." Like a bad actor from an old mobster movie, the hand that had dragged him out here pushed him roughly to the ground, rounds of stupid, guffawing laughter punctuating the action echoing from the people already waiting outside.

It let him know just about to a T who he was up against. "You say a lot of stupid things, Cupcake. I've learned to tune most of them out." It was true- if the great, stupid boy had actually made any previous mention of the request he said he had, Jim hadn't heard it. It must've been hidden covertly between the customary 'Your father was a coward' and 'Kirk's a jerk' comments; like they were still supposed to hurt him after all of this time. Regaining his equilibrium and blinking upwards, he saw exactly what he'd _(feared) _expected: Adam, three of his mouth-breathing friends and his slobbering pit bull, genuinely mean in a way that very few animals actually were. He thought, through the static of panic, of gentle Delilah back home with Spock.

This was a kink in his plans if he'd ever seen one. He should be throwing insults, freaking out, trying to run- but all he seemed able to do at the moment was stare up at malicious faces like a deer in headlights, still thinking of Spock as the pain brigade advanced.

-StoneByStone-

It had been a reluctant decision for the sixteen year old; get off the roof, stop moping and find something at least mildly constructive to do. In his cursory and half hearted search, Spock had found James' Biology textbook. There were no complex equations or far fetched theories such as he was used to, but it was none-the-less more fascinating than he had initially accounted for. Earth itself, it seemed, was a lot more fascinating, too. The diversity of ecosystems, staggering number of species and the effect of _so much _water on all of the above almost blew him away. Earth was truly a marvel of a planet- more lush and picturesque than most aliens gave it credit for. He was grasped by a senseless, illogical urge to go out an experience it all for himself, and take pride in what was partially his planet or origin. If this phenomenal, scientifically wondrous world was really what his mother had left behind, she must have a deeper devotion to his father than Spock had any inkling. Abandoning this mentally and visually stimulating place behind for the barren, alien desert-

It was at this point in his musings when the migraine struck. He knew it wasn't quite normal or natural the instant the pain ignited his brain- it was sharp stabs next to bursts of anger and humiliation, all with the undercurrent of 'helphelphelphelpHELPME!' thrumming from Jim's end of the link into the panic switch at the base of Spock'sbrain, wired to protect.

In an instant he was sitting ramrod straight in the office chair he'd been lounging in, long ears slicked back against his skull in an aggressive gesture, nerves on edge. He hated to give himself the satisfaction, but he _knew _it! He had known something was bound to malfunction, knew he should've stuck with his wayward t'hy'la at all costs.

Deciding that going down the stairs and leaving out the front door would require too many explanations and take far too much time, (time he didn't have, time where he could be protecting that which was his self-imposed responsibility) Spock slid out the open window and down the now familiar shingles, making the twelve foot drop from the lower roof to the damp ground with more grace than any human could ever hope to have.

He hit the ground running and didn't stop, muscles contracting with every leaping step, advancing in rapid bounds with his springing, entirely Vulcan gait, reminiscent of a time when his people had digitigrade feet, like cats and canines. A time when Vulcans were warriors and hunters, a testament to how far gone Spock was becoming to find James (who was in so much _pain_ now, only increasing with every second passed. It was simply logical that he should hurry.)

His careful control had popped again, traces of worry seeping through the cracks. Luckily, he reflected, he wasn't to the point of total abandon.

His arrival at the party was roughly six minutes after his departure from the farmhouse. Riverside was a small town, sure, but that was positively _inhuman_; almost invulcan as well. Spock didn't need to go inside to find Jim. He could hear the pained exclamations from sixty feet away, muffled with from willful desire not to give his tormentors the satisfaction as they were.

Spock bounded effortlessly over the fence without touching it, unconcerned with appearing human (or rational) at this point. Hair no longer appearing as its customary bowl cut, windswept to the left and tousled with sweat, he supposed he mustn't have looked much like a modern Vulcan. The pinned ears, narrowed eyes and working jaw, teeth gnashing under his closed lips, may have had something to do with it as well. Spock was about the same height as the tallest boy there, but with his thundering presence he appeared to tower over them all as the stalked viciously foreword, disregarding all trespassing laws and outer-planetary visitor regulations.

And then he caught sight of Jim, curled in fetal position with a black eye, split lip and bruises in places Spock couldn't see (but feel quite acutely), and while his heart broke his patience simultaneously snapped.

"You. Will. _**Cease**_." There was no epic showdown, no punches thrown or insults exchanged; but the pit bull flanking the ugliest of the loathsome little group abruptly began whining urgently, backing away with the utmost care and it's tail between it's legs. The animal had the right idea.

"You have a smart canine. I suggest you follow suit." It was a threat by anyone's standards, unmasked, with vicious undertones of retribution and a demonstration of Vulcan's violent history.

Stumbling and muttering, eyes wide as saucers, they did as they were told, moving faster the farther away they got and tripping over themselves to get inside and find safety buried in the raging crowd still gathered. Walking over quickly and lightly, Spock bent down with eyes brimming concern, speaking in volumes a facial expression could never manage.

He reached out and smoothed down a stray lick of hair on his friend's head, ignoring the crimson-brown smear of blood from a tiny gash towards the front of his skull. He didn't stop there- he couldn't, not without more reassurance that Jim would really be _ok_. While he ran his fingers soothingly across Jim's cheek and over his temple, ghosting the meld points in an attempt at comfort, Spock took further inventory of the human's injuries. He'd broken his pinky and fourth finger on his left hand, while two bruises as big as Spock's fist were quickly turning deep purple on the outside of his left leg and beneath his right pectoral. There were a multitude of other, minor bruises and a handful of scrapes, but Spock couldn't hear the blood painfully rushing to them like he could with the Charlie horse its upper body compatriot.

Jim's face looked like it'd gotten the worst of it. Blood from the tiny gash on the top of his head was dripping down onto his face, making it seem infinitely worse than it was. While head cuts may bleed like there's no tomorrow, this one (thankfully) wasn't very deep, and looked clean enough that it could heal well on its own. A profound sense of regret threatened to take hold of the Vulcan, but the pressing matter of getting Jim to safety took precedence. They were all fairly superficial wounds- and, with the nearest hospital being a day away with the Malcor's old fashioned car, it wasn't worth the trek.

With an almost unbelievable gentleness about him, the unspeakable calm of relief and a sense of purpose on his face, Spock scooped James into his arms bridal style and situated his limbs comfortably. When Jim finally opened his eyes at the amiable gestures and beckoning back into consciousness, he stared up at Spock like a saving grace; the light in his blue eyes making the aforementioned sophomore both unspeakably proud and a bit embarrassed. Opening his chapped lips, he croaked out a hesitant apology, seeming to deliberately forego explanation for now.

"Sorry about needing the save." His smile was heartbreakingly sincere, weak, tired and unconditionally apologetic. He didn't ask how Spock knew how he was in trouble, or even where he was- it just seemed to make sense, in his addled, ever-so-slightly concussed state of mind, that Spock would be there when he needed him. Just… the way it had always been, that sort of thing. "I can't seem to get anything right these days-" a tender, hesitant cough broke up the sentence, more phlegm mixed with a hint of blood dripping delicately out of his split, parted lips "even partying."

Spock just kept on walking, the angle of the artificial yellow light cast behind them obscuring his dark eyes. "Curious you should say that. I happen to be of the opinion you're more than proficient at a variety of activities. Perhaps, if loud music and alcohol are two of the few things you do not excel at, you should leave this 'partying' to less talented individuals." Jim understood the words between the lines as clearly as if he were the one thinking them (he was, actually, thinking them vicariously through Spock, but this was another one of those things Spock wasn't quite ready to divulge.)

'_You're talented to me. Quit doing stupid things that get you injured! Most of all, though, quit doing things we can't do __together__.'_

In that instant, he just wanted to hug Spock. He knew it was the wrong time, the wrong place, but he didn't care. Instead, he curled further into the protective embrace he was being carried in and grinned so wide his eyes squeezed shut. "Okay. And one more thing- don't tell mom. She has 'nuff to worry about." The words were beginning to slur, and while the urge to argue with Kirk's faulty logic was there (_'she is your mother, and she has a right to know'_), Spock didn't. He knew he'd end up caving to the younger boy's whim: Jim seemed to have that effect on him.

Then all of the tension in the link drained, leaving a sort of floating calm from James' end that Spock wouldn't mind basking in, if the situation wasn't quite so bleak. The injured idiot had fallen asleep.

_It was as if he was a part of James, simply an extension of the young man's over-active imagination, freely taking all of the affection he had been so silently starved for most of his childhood._

It wasn't that far back to the Malcor farmhouse- not for a Vulcan, at least, but getting back up onto the roof and through the window without Winona noticing was going to be a problem.

_Jim was so full of bright emotions, brimming in joy and optimism that he rarely let himself indulge in, for fear of ridicule. It was a shame, because Spock thought it was simply __amazing__,…_

Although he didn't revel in lying to the nice woman, the considerate mother, he still had an acute awareness that his allegiance lay, willingly or not, perpetually with James.

…_and hoped…_

The human in question was warm against his chest, in a way not simply physical but spiritual- like a band-aid on a scraped knee, fitting up against Spock's chest like the last piece of a forgotten puzzle.

…_that maybe, one day…_

Spock shifted Kirk slightly, so his head lolled gently and safely against Spock's chest (right above his heart, just like it was supposed to be) and broke into his odd, loaping run once more, speeding through the night with residual elation mooched off Jim (and what a feeling it was!)

…_he could love like that, too._

-'-

**A/N**: My brother got caught illegally downloading movies. They shut down our internet for a F*CKING MONTH. If he ever does it again, they're banning us from internet forever, in which case I'm not speaking to him until I move out and can get my own internet connection. God, he's an asshole. So… sorry, bout the wait. It was as upsetting for me as it might have been for you, if you like this story; which I hope you do.

Updates should be weekly again, thank god. Please **Review**: remember, I take suggestions, love feedback and actually keep the longer, nicer reviews in my e-mail for writing support when I'm in a slump!

Oh god... I'm such a hurt!Jim whore. Please excuse the painfulness; I just love writing righteous Spock too much.


	8. Waiting For

**A/N:** Yes, I know Vulcan hearts are where the human liver is. That wasn't an accident- Jim's head was lolling near Spock's stomach, not his chest, so precarious and careful of injuring Jim further was Spock. Not bundled up, but tenderly arranged. Sorry for any confusion and notions of anatomy fail it conjured; if it still bothers the hell out of anyone, just drop me a line and I'll rearrange the wording.

I was listening to 'Waitin' for Superman' by Iron and Wine for the last half of this chapter. Although it's like nothing I usually listen to, that song's lyrics never fail to make me tear up. You can tell. Prepare yourself for the flood of acceptance-seeking and tenderness.

---IsItGettingHeavy?----

There aren't many things that make Jim jump anymore. It's mostly the ghost of sensation, the feeling that something _should_ unsettle him, and that the appropriate response would be distress. His reaction time was slower than most people knew- possibly stemming from the fact that he had simply become desensitized to the bad, after all this time.

Jim knew it was dangerous; not enough time to think before agony, the kind of split second delay that turned car-crashes into gravesites. On the flipside, it gave him more time to focus on reacting to the good in his life.

It was quickly becoming apparent that where he left off on self defense and common sense, Spock was more than happy to pick up the slack for both of them. These were the thoughts he tried to occupy himself with, still half in dreamy limbo, almost painfully aware of just how _embarrassing_ getting rescued by the guy you were supposed to be showing the ropes was. He ached all over, but it was more of the 'pain-is-over', 'reassurance-you're-alive' type of mild agony, and certainly something he could deal with.

The repercussions of last night, however, were probably **not**. He appreciated Spock's white knight moment, might have enjoyed it just a bit if it had escalated into the good, old fashioned beat-down that had been promised had further attempts against his person – but damned if there was a way to _explain_ something like that happening, especially when the tale was being reviewed from the terrorized party.

That and the fact that he still had no fucking clue _how _Spock accomplished it, either. For all of his tip-toeing around civility, that was one gift horse he would have to look in the mouth, sooner rather than later. Disregarding the general Vulcan policy of keeping humans in the dark until the last possible second, he knew he could get Spock to tell him; he just had to get the guy to acknowledge that in the Kirk household, emotions were neither frowned upon nor court martial worthy offences long enough to squeeze an explanation out.

Luckily for the hybrid there were more pressing matters, at the current moment, at hand. Like finding a way to explain to his mother exactly how shit had gone down. The whole 'don't tell her' thing had seemed like a perfectly doable and rational plan last night, punch drunk and half traumatized, but now that his head wasn't clouded by thoughts of glossy black hair and sleep, the glaring, acidic holes in his logic began to point themselves out to him with vindictive clarity.

Foremost being the litany of injures that covered him in varying degrees of severity form head to toe. Most prominent, naturally, being the gaping hole in his pride.

He turned and buried his face deep in his pillow, making a low, drawn out, strangled sound that could only be compared to seagulls trying to kill a bagpipe. With his in-tact hand he clutched at the pillow he was buried in, still feebly trying to ignore the inevitability of the upcoming day.

"Are you quite alright?" The words were quick to follow his mournful (if somewhat exaggerated) lament, light and careful and eager to please. When James mustered the courage to turn his head towards open air and squint in the direction of the inquiry (subsequently rubbing his cheek through a damp patch of slightly pink drool) he met impossibly large, dark eyes staring at him from not a foot away. Spock had placed him on the bottom bunk for then night (unlikely as it was, falling off the top in his condition would be indescribably painful), and appeared to have set up camp on the floor next to him. He now lay awake, leaning gently against the side of the bed where Kirk had slept, a dog eared book shutting on his lap as he gave the injured adolescent his full attention.

Spock had been looking after him… all night? There was a nest of blankets on the floor around were Spock now sat, seemingly pulled from the bunk above him and the foot of Sam's old bed in the room across the hall.

Jim temporarily forgot his humiliation in favor of wonder. "How'd'ja get us **up** here without mom noticing- I say that because if she had, I _wouldn't _have been able to sleep through it."

Spock's variation of facial distinctions had returned to it's normal range: limited to the rise and fall of his left eyebrow, that was. "Tediously-" If Spock were human, Jim would've sworn that was the hint of a grimace, "-and not without trial and error. I would also like to add that you would be surprised at what you can, apparently, sleep through."

Jim had the decency to adopt his blush once more. Still… something wasn't right. It just didn't make sense _logically_. "Why do you care?" It was far harsher than Jim had anticipated, and he had to reword fast in order to stop the Vulcan from retreating into himself once more in the delusion of isolation. "I mean, it's great- lord knows I can use all the friends I can get over in my corner- but you've known me for less than a week."

Kirk would not hesitate to admit it felt like much longer, like a happy lifetime previous to Spock's gliding off the '_Mayflower_' that fateful day, but the concept of deja-vu was a purely illogical one, he was sure. He would've thought Vulcans, of any species, would put much more stress on having a slow-building, easygoing relationship before throwing themselves into the wringer for a companion. Spock seemed to shrink in upon himself, staring up at Jim like he'd been caught red handed.

"I- I also require more respectable persons 'in my corner', as you colloquialized it. Also… your manner is pleasing. I apologize if I have assumed too much in the pursuit of-" He would've said 'happiness', but that spot was still far too sore. Admitting to emotions, even to a huma—**Jim**, was a hand Spock was not sure he would ever be comfortable tipping. "-companionship. Also… my mother was human."

Jim simply stared with slowly comprehending eyes, listening respectfully as the other boy squeezed out every syllable like he was admitting to murder. There was suddenly a blinding slam of regret barraging him from every side, suffocating him with the sheer stupidity of his inquiry. Of course Spock wasn't a normal fucking Vulcan- he'd gotten shipped to Iowa, hadn't he, despite his prodigious intelligence.

He was sent to earth, most likely, in an attempt to counter the discrimination Jim knew (the dream, still so vivid and_ too_ haunting) was occurring on what Spock treated as his home world. Leave it to Jim to rub salt in the 'you're-not-a-**real**-anything,-hybrid' wound.

"Nono**no**—I like it, remember? I love it. Just… just didn't want to pressure you into anything you're still… on the fritz about. Culturally, I mean." Spock's nod was less self assured than it should've been. "Of course."

James clenched both of his fists, embracing the shooting discomfort from the broken fingers on his left hand. One step foreword, two steps back. Damn it to hell.

----

Spock could sense that Jim was being sincere about enjoying his company, being comfortable around him- but the question was a welcome rain check. Even with the goal of familiarity firmly in mind, he was being far too free going about his self appointed task.

He also picked up on Jim's conclusions as to why he had been sent to Earth. A false conclusion, yes, but a logical one- one that would keep the other boy one step further from finding out that Spock was truly and deeply broken.

It was Jim who broke the silence again, as per usual. "You and I… we're still… cool, right?" There was a hoping tenor to that voice that would've given Spock a hard time saying 'no' even if it were true. "We are indeed still on amiable terms, James."

It occurred to the human that he could not remember hearing Spock refer to him as 'Jim' out loud as of yet. "And we can still… do stuff together right? Friend stuff, like you said?"

'Friend stuff' was actually more implied than anything Spock's earlier words, but it was becoming common knowledge what Spock said and what he meant when it came to matters of the heart never lined up. "Indeed we can, if you so desire." He knew what Jim was really asking.

'_Do you still like me? Are we really still friends- after that?'_

Spock answered the question Kirk hadn't yet verbalized. "Yes."

Jim's eyes were as wide now as saucers, but he seemed to comprehend what it was Spock was answering. It also brought another musing to the forefront of his mind…

"How did you find me? Last night, I mean- you obviously didn't ask mom, 'cause she would've expected you back with me- would've either stayed up late or woken up early to check on us." The reply he got was deliberately vague, and avoided the 'finding' venue altogether.

"You required assistance, and it appeared no one else in the vicinity was either fit or motivated enough to do it. I stepped in out of necessity. I suggest you find a way to delineate your injuries to your mother before endeavoring to go downstairs, however."

The subject change was obvious but relevant. "Well-" he started articulately. "-shit."

---- It'----

Jim let Spock put a surprisingly sturdy makeshift brace on his injured fingers, made from two tongue compressors out of an old craft kit and some paper-mâché. "It will do." Declared Spock, sounding remarkably pleased with himself despite his customary monotone. They had craftily waterproofed it with a dismembered Ziploc bag and jettisoned Jim into the shower to wash away as much of the previous night as possible. He stood, and soaked, and _tried_ beyond human might to resist the urge to bury his head under the ground. It wasn't so much that he didn't want to explain the situation to his mom- bless her heart, they'd made it through worse together; it was the fact that he'd have to explain it to Spock that tied his stomach in knots. _'Oh, by the way, this happens quite frequently since I'm an easy target. Don't worry, though, the bruises always heal within the next month~!'_

Spock was sitting cross-legged on his bed when Jim finally exited, dressed in faded blue-jeans that used to be Sam's and a clean, but still irreversibly stained T-shirt. There was a scarce moment of silence before Spock put him in the spotlight, as Jim knew he would. "Please explain last night's predicament." The words were harsh and clipped sounding, but there was an underlying tenderness that made it seem more like a conversation than an interrogation. Still, Jim flushed crimson; but the look on Spock's face said he wasn't giving up the topic until he got a satisfactory answer. Kirk shuffled from foot to foot restlessly while he still could, the warmth of the shower still bone deep in his suddenly panic stricken body.

"Those guys don't much like anybody." Spock's stare intensified, and James was fast to elaborate in an attempt to avoid any more questions than necessary. "-and I'm not exactly sir center-of-attention, y'know. Kinda easy to single me out."

"Above and beyond the fact that I refuse to believe they would single you out for no personal reason, the fact that you believe yourself insignificant enough to single out for those meager explanations is abhorrent." Despite the chastising tone, the words warmed Jim's heart. "Not insignificant! I'm just… not the king of social interaction, shall we say. I'm hell of important."

"James, you're avoiding the question." Jim tossed his head back and rolled his eyes in disbelief. "Says the pot to the kettle!" Spock leveled him with a stare that would've intimidated a Klingon. "I found you because, on an entirely subconscious and unintentional level, bonded the emotional sections of out thought processes. Now will you tell me why you were being bullied?"

Jim looked like someone had poured ice cubes down his shirt. "Wait… wait, _what?_"

Kirk continued to stare with a single minded intensity, hearing but not really comprehending. "Seriously? So we're, uh… what's going on, exactly? You know I, um, wasn't really expecting an answer, right? Just thought it was worth a shot, actually."

"It didn't appear as if you were going to give me a straight answer otherwise." Contradictory to his comment, the hybrid looked as if he'd let slip much more than he'd intended. There were the beginnings of defense in his posture, eyeing Kirk like the freshman was going to lash out and file a restraining order any second. Words began flowing like water through Jim's pink lips, quick to stopper whatever worst-case scenario the suddenly skittish looking being in front of him was undoubtedly conjuring.

"Hey; It's okay!" Frustration at his own inability to explain his viewpoint surfaced as he looked around the room, as though it held the words he was looking for to describe how he felt. Like throwing up nails, he tried to force up the words he'd been denying since Sam left, the ones that let people know he was _hurting_, and everything was _not _ok, and maybe this could be less creepy and more… comforting, than he might usually admit, if it just abolished the pressing sense of loneliness. "I-you, I mean… this is helping you? The emotional… mind thing?" He made a gesture that looked suspiciously like 'crazy' with his right hand, but they both knew what he meant.

Jim had spent so long waiting for Superman. Past the age where everyone else simply resigned themselves to the real world, staying up at night with the grand notions of what he still believed life could be like, if he tried hard enough.

In a weird… purely metaphorical, deeply flawed way, he'd finally found 'Superman'. The person who could solve all of Jim's problems, but absolutely drowned in his own. Spock, through Jim's wondering paradigm, was strong enough for everybody- everybody except himself, it seemed.

"It's ok. Just… stay out of my… direct thoughts, Ok?" Spock looked like he'd asked for a rock and been given the world. "I do not expect you to take any part of this upon yourself. You would be absolutely within rights to have me court-martialed and sent straight back to Vulcan." He was struggling with himself now, the words escaping his lips clashing with the way his fists clenched in the sheets that smelled of Iowa and sunshine like they'd never let go if given the choice.

"It's what I deserve, James. You… don't understand the incredible magnitude of these kind of things- even one such as this, considered mild in my culture, is an invasion of one's own mind unthinkable to anyone unfamiliar with the intricacies of emotional contact." Jim had enough of his wits still about him to look offended. "Not unthinkable at all, actually. You said that you could keep…" He searched for a good word, "…leaning on me- metaphorically- without really reading my mind, right? Just… a backup plan?"

It came out as a question. Spock's response was slow and quiet, pupils fixed on his fingernails, _daring to hope_. Jim could feel it, now that he tried. It wasn't anything like he'd imagined this could be like— but it was still beautiful, in the rawest, most abstract way possible.

"Yes. The direct invasion on your actual cohesive thoughts is very minimal. There are shields in place to prevent that happening. Understand, James, that last night, when you were hurting-"

Jim finished the sentence like he was having an epiphany. "-you were hurting too, huh?"

Spock's response was barely a whisper; the most human Jim had ever heard him. "Yeah. Badly. It's worse when you get hurt. I can brush it off when it's me, but I can't seem to stomach the thought of you being anything less than optimal, let alone…" For the first time words seemed to fail him, so instead the Vulcan just made a sweeping gesture up and down Jim's torso with an elegant hand, indicating the damage done.

"So… you protect me physically and I'm the keeper of your precarious Vulcan barriers?" Spock nodded absently. "In layman's terms, that is one way you could interpret the melding."

"… And you can't just go mucking about in my head willy-nilly?" Spock seemed offended at the prospect. "I would never even if I could, not without explicit permission and a goal in mind. Vulcans do not do 'willy-nilly', James."

A smile was tugging at the dirty blonde's face now, the type that stretches your lips and pulls your ears back. There were a few minutes of much needed contemplative silence, both so wrapped up in their own thoughts that neither bothered with the concept that 'awkward' would usually be the best word to describe this kind of pause.

Jim's icebreaker was not at all what Spock had expected. "We're going to be the most awesome tandem ever, mark my words. We could totally be the next 'World's Finest'."

Spock appreciated the sentiment, if not the sensibility. It was glaringly obvious the concept of sharing a little bit of his _mind_ with someone else was somewhat upsetting to the human; but he seemed genuinely happy to help Spock, and neither of them could keep optimism down with unfettered sunshine coming through the window and the smell of omelets now wafting up from down stairs.

"You realize, ground breaking revelations aside, we are still going to have to find a plausible way to present your injuries to your mother. Also, know I am aware that you have, for the moment, successfully ducked my query about why you were really targeted." Jim made a show of deflating like a balloon.

"Way to kill the mood, man."

"For you? Always, James."

"Call me _Jim_."

"Certainly, James.

--------

**A/N:** Sappy author is unbearably sappy. You were appropriately warned at the beginning of this chapter, mind you. Next chapter the boys _finally _begin to orchestrate Frank's demise/earn his respect, and much more.

'World's Finest'= DC Comics' Batman and Supes. Bruce and Clark. It was necessary. *Is a huge comic geek*

OH MY GOD, THE STAR TREK 2009 DELETED SCENES. The young Jim, Sam and Frank scene. Oh dear. This story just got that much more cannon compatible. **Review Please!**


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